


Hopelessly in Love with the Stars

by whipperschnapper



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Alternate Universe - Space, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Humor, M/M, alien!jean, astronaut!marco, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9102550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whipperschnapper/pseuds/whipperschnapper
Summary: The earth is fine. The water reserves are sustainable, and with a new strain of disease causing for a degeneration in the major populace, there is no need to worry about land or overpopulation.So why, then, is Marco Bodt recruited by NASA on a one-man mission to an uncharted fold of space after nearly four years of retirement?He doesn’t mind, though. He’s missed the stars, missed the zero-G. He only wished there were more that would have prepared him for what he was getting into. If he knew how long he would really be out, he would have brought more pictures of his dog, and maybe a few more movies. But, then, how was he supposed to know his ship would be caught in a space swell? How was he supposed to prepare for running into a fallen-from-grace shape-shifter with the social graces of sandpaper?It’s a hard road ahead, and one filled with much more bad than he would ever dream of, but Marco’s willing to do just about anything to get back home to his dog.





	1. The Crier and The Chameolomorph

**Author's Note:**

  * For [approaching_asymmetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/approaching_asymmetry/gifts).



> happy late christmas gift!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why am I here?" he demanded hotly. "What do you want with me?"
> 
> The monster hesitated, its mouth clicking and growling like it had in the moments before it had stolen the human language from Marco’s head. Its head swiveled around to face him with a crack of its neck, and its onyx gaze sent him a step backward. “Absolutely nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening for this chapter: "Stay" from the "Interstellar" OST by Hans Zimmer.

The late-summer breeze blew the stink of fuel into Marco’s nose, and he felt his heart sink to his bellybutton. It wasn’t so much that it was a bad smell—it was—or unfamiliar even—it wasn’t—but the mere thought of leaving, the thought that he may never come back, it always did this to him. Three times he had been up in space, and three times the mission had been successful. But those three times he knew what he was getting into. The fourth…there was something missing from the text. A fine-print detail he couldn’t find, no matter how hard his eyes searched the stars for the hidden asterisk he _knew_ was supposed to be there somewhere.

To make matters worse, Janet seemed blissful and oblivious to the fact that he was leaving. Her fluffy tail wagged, her tongue lolled from one side of her open mouth as she loped alongside Marco through the field. She barked and hopped at his space gear, sniffing at the unfamiliar material with the same child-like curiosity as normal, but to her this was just a normal walk through the empty field behind the house. Just the same as any other night.

Marco gripped the attachment ring of his helmet with one hand, the bulky plastic of his gloves making the gesture awkward and his cramping fingers stiff. He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

“You’ll have to bring back a souvenir for me.” Marco’s cousin, Mikasa, joked. Her voice was flat as it usually was, but there was a slight, melancholy tremble to it. “Like a rock, or an alien.”

Marco glanced down at her, a quaky tremble in his lower lip as it quirked into a half-assed half-smile. “Why not a star?”

Mikasa glanced up at him, and the harsh shadows of the floodlights set up in the middle of the field gave her pretty face a horror-movie cast. It made her hard to look at without a pit of dread opening in Marco’s gut. “A story would suffice. Tell me everything you see when you get back.”

Marco ignored the emphasis she put on _when_. “I will. Tell me what I miss.”

A sad turn lifted the corners of Mikasa’s mouth, and her eyes sparkled. “I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Janet yipped at the lack of attention, hopping from one foot to the other in anticipation.

“Oh, baby,” Marco crooned and stooped down so he was eye level with her. “I couldn’t forget my best girl.” He scratched behind her pointed ears, wishing he could feel her fur with his real fingers instead of through the stupid bulk of his gloves, but there was little time. “Now, you have to promise to be good while I’m gone, all right? You know how Mickey can get.” His eyes rolled up to his cousin, who stubbornly shifted from one foot to the other, her slender arms crossing over each other and her fragile lips lifting into a knowing grin. “I love you, Janny.”

…His lip trembled when he said it, as if the words were enough to bring reality to a head. Alone in uncharted space, probably for a year at least, six at most. At least a year’s worth of games of fetch unplayed, bottles of luke-warm soda undrunk, loved ones unkissed. The thought brought a lake of tears to Marco’s eyes again, and he chomped down on his bottom lip and took a deep, shaking breath to keep them from spilling over. “You be a good girl.” He hugged Janet close, taking a deep breath through his nose to keep from sobbing.

Janet barked happily as Marco crushed her in that final hug, and licked his tan cheeks free of any traitor tears that escaped.

“Marc.” He wanted to ignore the soft hand that squeezed his neck. He wanted only to stay with his dog, his best friend, and forget the mission. “It’s time to go.”

“I know,” he took another breath and pushed up from the the tall grass. “I know. I know.” His lungs felt like they might collapse as he brushed his cheeks dry. “Sorry, Mickey.”

Mikasa only gave him a soft, sad smile.

His legs shook as they came up to the launch site, the cranes and lifts and lights and the ginormous ship he was due to pilot for the next year—hopefully a year only.

“Take care of her, Mick.” Marco rasped through the tears in his throat. “Take care of my girl.”

Mikasa’s shoulders straightened in a dignified way, and her eyes shone just as much as Marco’s. “Whatever you say, captain.” She saluted him.

Marco gave her a watery smile, his left pinky suspended in the space between them. “Promise?”

Mikasa laughed. It was a sad sound, but happy. It was hard to wrap her pinky around the the wide plastic of Marco’s finger, but she did. “Promise.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

Her slender finger made a cross over her heart, her other hand still holding tight to Marco's. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Marco’s lip trembled again, and he buried Mikasa in a hug worth a year of her time. A bone-crushing, breath-stealing bear of a hug, one that squeezed the tears from either hugger's eyes like a ripe lemon. “Thanks, Mickey.”

“I’ll see you later, kid.” Mikasa whispered.

Marco dried his eyes again to the rumble of an engine. Before she could scramble or cry at the blaring sound, Marco pointed to Janet. “Sit.” He ordered crisply, and her bottom plopped right into the yellow grass. Marco smiled against trembling lips at his well-trained girl. “Good girl.”

He ran to the crane before he could cry again.

The solar shield of his helmet would hide the redness in his eyes, but there was little he could do about the sniffle in his voice.

“How’s it going up there, Chief?”

Marco was happy and surprised to hear that voice. “Armin?”

The voice laughed on the intercom in his helmet, and the sound made a smile easier. “The one and only.”

“How’s Annie holding up?” Marco asked, his hands strapping him into his seat, fingers flipping switches as the engine rumbled beneath him.

“Good, good,” Armin chatted, “the baby’s doin’ pretty well, too.”

“You two decided on a name yet?”

“She wants to call him Dmitri after her dad.” Armin’s voice was flat, and he made a disgruntled retching noise into the microphone. “But he’s such a squirrely kid. Looks more like an Andy or a Tony if you ask me.”

Marco laughed despite the hollowness in his chest. “Why not have one as a middle name?” He settled into his seat, both hands gripped tight to the armrests as the engine rumbled through his legs. He breathed out a tense sigh, a pit of nerves he’d nearly forgotten oozing down the walls of his stomach.

Armin’s voice took on an awkward tone. “Uh, that’s the thing, cap…We were kind of,”—Armin coughed and hummed, and Marco could already imagine him tugging at his collar. The thought made an easy smile curl the corners of his lips, and Marco smiled sadly. “We’ve decided we’d like to have, uh, _Marco_ as a middle name.”

Marco’s smile fell, and he looked up at the roof of the ship as if he could see Armin there. “What?”

Armin stammered at Marco’s small voice. “Well, A-Annie thought it would be nice to give the kid someone nice to look up to, y’know? Why she didn’t think _I’m_ good enough is beyond me, but…” Armin sighed. “We just thought we owed you that much.”

Another smile crept across Marco’s lips, and he gasped in a sudden, happy breath. “Thank you, Armin.”

“So, how’d Janet take the news?” Mikasa wasn’t the only one aware of Marco’s infatuation with the happy-go-lucky German shepherd.

Marco tried not to think of it. “She took it better than I did.”

Armin sighed. “Bitches, man. They’ll break your heart every time.”

Marco laughed to keep from crying. “Yes, they will.”

The countdown began, and the rumble intensified. Marco released a tense sigh. His whole body shook and trembled, and not just because of the nervousness of being plunged into the stars. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the tears to soak his cheeks as he thought of Janet, of Mikasa, and the people he was leaving behind him. With a jolt, and the roar of fire, the ship lifted and blasted off into the stars, and Marco was alone.

* * *

Janet tilted her head as the rocket rose into the sky, a long tail of fire tracing behind it. She yipped up at a tearful Mickey biting firm on her trembling bottom lip as she watched her cousin fly away, and a whine escaped Janet’s throat. The dog’s head turned back to the sky, and the whine rose again before she stood, and barked once into the night sky.

* * *

He’d forgotten how wonderful space actually was, but he still wished Janet could be there with him. The thought of her floating around in zero-G, wearing a blue space suit like his with a hole in the back to free her fluffy tail made him smile, but that smile quickly crumpled into a frown he couldn’t fight. Marco let his body float through the sleeping chamber of the ship with the two sets of bunk beds and watched as more tears floated from his eyes and hit the ceiling.

* * *

There was more water floundering above his head as Marco awoke eight hours later. He would have liked to call it morning, but it was too dark out to really tell the time. It could have been noon as easily as it could have been midnight, but that was just a thought at the back of his mind.

“Houston, what’s my reading?” Marco asked, his thumb jammed into the intercom button before he had even brushed his teeth. He knew the answer to his question before it came, but he only wanted to hear another person tell him. He’d never liked the sound of his voice.

“Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty!” Armin groused on the other end. “Decided to join the living have we?”

Marco’s thumb still pressed into the intercom as he yawned.

“Dude, I can smell your breath from here,” Armin groaned.

“What’s my reading?” Marco repeated and ground the sleep from his eyes.

“Comp. says you’re still in Orion’s arm. I’d say…” Armin hummed. “About armpit? Can you smell the celestial body odor?”

Marco grunted. “Funny.” He took a deep breath, and his eyebrows crinkled. He sniffed again. “Actually, I do smell something. I’m gonna go check it out.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with the ship.” Armin supplied, and his voice echoed through the ship as Marco entered another chamber and the zero-G kicked in. “Chambers look sealed, skies clear…”

“Look at that sunrise.” Marco hooted and paused by a round window, watching with sleepy eyes as the ship tilted and the sun came into view. “Hey, what time is it where you’re at?”

Armin hummed. “About, ah, 0300 hours.”

Marco blinked as the sun passed again and he was faced with an endless expanse of stars and blackness. “Why aren’t you home with Annie and Dmitri?”

“Ah, you too?” Armin sounded offended at the name. “I thought at least _you’d_ side with me that Tony fit him better!”

Marco shrugged and laughed. “Haven’t seen the kid yet, remember? And Dmitri Marco has a better ring to it.”

Armin grumbled. “Traitor.”

“So why aren’t you home?”

He could hear the shrug in Armin’s voice. “I dunno. Just letting the wife have a rest, I guess. That midwife is a fucking dream when she can watch her mouth.”

“You get the one Mickey recommended?”

“Is it normal that Ymir doesn’t have any kind of Surname?” Armin laughed a little distractedly. “You think she’s running from the law?”

“I think she’s good at what she does and you shouldn’t ask too many questions,” Marco hummed, pushing away from the window and letting his body pinwheel gently through the corridor toward the strangely pancake-like smell. “Also, yes. Ymir is probably involved in the cartel.”

“All right, cap.” Armin chuckled, “looks like SatCon picked up a small storm moving your way. Change your direction about five degrees north and strap in. You’ll need the boosters for this one.”

Marco paused, catching his hand on the ledge of the corridor before he floated into the wall. He stared into the short tube that led into the airlock. “You think I have enough time to check out that smell?”

There was a long pause before static on Armin’s end. “I wouldn’t risk it, cap.”

Marco hung there for another long moment before tucking his legs up to the ledge and pushing himself back to the cargo bay and strapping into his seat. He flicked switches, pressed buttons, and eased the ship just barely to the right. He watched as the world shifted, and he lost few of the Lagoon Nebula in favor of Sagittarius. The stars twinkled, stealing every last ounce of Marco’s breath the longer he stared.

“Hey! Earth to Marco!”

Marco blinked, and pressed the intercom. “I read you,” he said a little breathless.

Armin’s voice leaked urgency. “That storm is still on your tail, cap. It’s moving a lot faster than we thought. You gotta move.”

"Approximate speed?”

Armin breathed, the sound warped and graining through Marco’s speaker. “It’ll be on top of you in about fifteen minutes and forty-two seconds if you don’t move.

Marco blinked again, then shook his head. “Shit.”

“Get out of there, cap,” Armin prompted. “My kid needs an uncle.”

Marco smirked. “We aren’t related!” But still, he took hold of the handles in a white-knuckled grip, the grumble of the ship shaking up into his shoulders.

“Janet needs a keeper,” Armin said. “And my kid needs a surrogate uncle.”

Marco smiled sadly. “All right.” He punched the quadrants into the computer, five more degrees to the north, and steered the ship farther off course. “You’ll have to save some pictures of baby for me or I won’t be happy getting out of here.”

“I promise.”

“Pinky promise?” Marco chuckled.

“Yeah, kid.”

Marco steered into the blackness, admiring the stars and wondering what Dmitri looked like, if he had Annie’s hooked nose and Armin’s honey-blond hair. He wondered if he had brown eyes like his godfather.

“Marco, that thing is still following you.”

“What?” He blinked up to the switches on the control panel above him, then the small radar-like screen to his right. He could see as a green mass dotted its way in his direction, faster than anything he'd ever seen. “No fucking way.”

“Marco!”

His neck felt it first, the throwing motion of something big—massive—slamming into the back of the ship and throwing him forward. Myriad colors flashed and different alarms sounded that something was wrong, and Marco rubbed at the spot on his collarbone where the seatbelt dug into his skin. He groaned and righted himself.

“Maria, do you read? Can you hear me?” Armin’s voice rose, the intercom warping and sizzling once before coming back to life. “Marco!”

“I copy,” Marco panted as something metal groaned behind him. “I think I was hit by something.”

“SatCon has lost visual of you! What’s going on?”

“Uh.” Marco tried to get a read on the radar, but the thing kept shorting out, showing things that weren’t there, like ships that hopped around the screen and more clouds swarming in. “I don’t know. I lost a booster.”

“Mother fuck.”

“You could say that,” Marco groaned, and clicked himself free of the seatbelt prison. He breathed a heavy sigh as the pressure left his collarbone. “Jesus Christ almighty.”

The line was silent for a long moment. “Marco.”

It wasn’t Armin. It was deeper, more threatening voice. Marco recognized it instantly.

“Commander Smith.”

“Check that booster. And what’s this I hear of a strange smell earlier?”

Marco clicked different buttons to get the incessant buzzing and dinging and honking to stop. “I smelled something coming from the airlock when I woke up this morning. I was going to check it out when something hit me.”

“The lower half of the ship is loosing pressure,” his Commander said, “get your suit on and fix it--”

The intercom went dead before he could finish.

Already Marco could feel something bad crawling its way up the length of his spine, and every horror movie he’d ever seen flashed before his eyes. Mostly, they had to do with the _Alien_ movies, and Marco felt his ears stretch for any sound that might suggest something else were on board.

But, aside from the buzzing of alarms and an automated voice informing of a breach in the kitchen of the ship, there was nothing.

Still…he couldn’t shake the feeling.

He turned around to suit up and check the airlock when something latched hard onto his neck and yanked him forward. Something hissed cold air in his face and Marco was lifted off the ground by his throat. He may have gasped and probably would have screamed if his lungs were allowed the opportunity, but could only gape up at the thing before him as his air was choked off.

It was tall, and shiny, and black. Whatever wrapped around his neck was squishy and tough like a tentacle of thick vinyl, and noises filled his head like bugs clicking and hissing.

_Click-click-click._

Marco couldn’t make out the details of the beast, but heard a faint buzz at the back of his brain beyond the thunder of his blood behind his ears as his legs grew weak and his hands’ grip on the tentacle around his neck loosened. He vaguely registered that the buzzing was voices from the intercom, Armin’s high and frantic as the world around him swam from black to light and back again.

_Click-click-click-click._

He didn’t remember the last thing he thought of.

* * *

Marco was startled awake when something sticky slid across his face and touched his tongue. He sputtered at the taste--salty, a little bitter--and assumed the worst until his eyes slowly adjusted to a dark, empty room.

Well, empty save for him, and whatever yellow slime bound his hands.

He sat up as best he could without the aid of his hands. The slime squelched between his fingers and Marco did his best not to vomit up the last meal he’d eaten at the feeling. “Oh, _god_.”

He didn’t recognize his surroundings, but then everything flooded back to him in a rush that had him slumped against the wall with his his crane craned at the ceiling, and a hopeless grimace twisting his face: something slamming hard enough into the ship to tear a breach in the kitchen, Armin freaking out, that shiny black thing holding him by the neck.

Marco caught his breath and glanced about the room. He recognized nothing, not even the architectural structure of it all. The walls were rounded, almost as if he sat in a flat-bottomed sphere, and there was no discernable door anywhere. The only light came from blue-green veins that zig-zagged the length of the floor in lightning-bolt patterns and illuminated the curve of the walls like electric water. If Marco squinted, he could see the faint surge of light as the veins all pulsed.

He was startled from his brain by the hiss of machinery, and a door suddenly melted into view to his left, a column of light sliding up to him.

Marco flinched against the wall as the same black thing came into the room. It seemed to bring the light with it somehow, as he was suddenly able to see everything, even when the door melted away again.

He could see it again, better this time, though he would much rather not have.

Its head reminded him of a praying mantis or a scorpion. Insect-like mandibles and pincers clicked at its mouth, and he couldn’t exactly tell where its eyes were. Where its neck and shoulders met became more complicated. Two black folds curled against its shoulders, almost like muscle, but Marco saw as they moved away to reveal a sharp exoskeleton for a chest with two dangerous-looking peaks on either shoulder. It had eight tentacles total that twitched and scrabbled like a spider, and Marco tried to get the imagery out of his mind as it took a step closer, its jagged, slender legs moving lithely, but with much power.

The same clicking from before filled his head as the thing moved right before him, and Marco tried to pull away when it touched his face. Its hands—claws?—were freezing, and the yellow slime binding Marco’s hands squelched and growled as if it were alive.

“Oh, gross!” Marco hissed, trying to pry his hands from the snot-like sludge. “Wh-what is this stuff?” He struggled again, but the snotty material wouldn’t budge.

He only froze as something whirred to life behind him, and Marco noticed the bug beast was no longer before him, but behind him.

Something poked the back of his head, and the clicking intensified.

Marco’s back broke out in a cold sweat as realizing it was probably a gun, the barrel whirling and humming just behind his ear. He slowly lifted his bound hands in surrender. “H-hold on a second.”

The clicking started again, this time accompanied by a growl of sorts, and Marco tried not to flinch as the barrel of the gun dug deeper into the base of his skull.

“I-I don’t…I can’t understand what you’re saying.” Marco tried to keep his voice steady, but it trembled despite his most valiant efforts.

The pressure of the barrel lessened some before coming back even harder again, and Marco’s shoulders shook.

Its hand touched him again, long and spidery. It touched his hair, tugged at his clothes, traced the line of his ear. He couldn’t be sure if it was genuinely curious or frisking him for weapons.

Heh. Weapons. If only NASA were smart enough to think of that. Had he a gun of any kind, Marco probably wouldn’t be in this situation at all.

…Then again, that barrel felt more powerful than any shotgun Marco had ever known, so probably not.

He choked on a scream when the bug thing whirled him around by the shoulder to face it again. His head slammed into the curved wall as another tentacle wrapped around his throat, not as tight as he remembered, but enough that he couldn’t move more than an inch in any direction. The snot handcuffs touched his pant leg and Marco cringed as the slimy texture made his leg feel wet.

 _Click-click-click_ , the thing said in its insect-like, guttural voice.  _Click-click-growl-click-click._

Marco could only stare as those jaws snapped and folded and tasted the air just before his face. They were so close; he could probably have touched the thing had he any inclination to. But he didn’t, and his neck stretched as far from the thing as he could, hoping like anything it had no intention to eat him.

The clicking faded into the growling, softer this time, almost like a purr resonating deep in its chest. Marco blinked as more of those thick tentacles came to wrap around his bicep, then his torso, taking the weight from his neck to different parts of his body. The thing stood to its full height and brought Marco all the way with it, his feet lifting a good three feet from the ground.

The purring continued, a mix of clicking still bubbling up from the bug thing’s throat. Its head tilted to one side, its complicated mouth still clicking and tasting the air in an unconscious way.

Marco gulped down the lump in his throat before it could pop out as a scream, his mouth working over words he couldn’t speak exactly. “Wh-where am I?” he gasped. “Please. I mean you no harm.”

 _I mean you no harm. I mean you no harm._ Sure, Marco didn’t, but that thing probably had other plans for him.

It tilted him forward, closer to its face, and Marco’s eyes squeezed tight as he waited for its jaws to open and take a chunk from his head. He could feel its cold breath on his cheek, wet and slimy and rank like rancid meat. He tried to shrink from its touch, his mouth pursed tight to keep any lingering tastes from his tongue before death as he was lowered closer still.

…His forehead was still intact. Even as something hard and cool pressed into it and the clicking started again, fast and rhythmic and something prodded at his brain. Marco’s eyes flashed open as his brain folded over in his head, like someone were stealing everything he had in there. His vision swam and his shoulders slumped.

Everything was leaving; names, places, faces, and feelings. Everything sifted right out of his brain into a bright blue light just beyond his eyelids. “W-wait. Wait, stop.”

His cousin’s name, his cousin’s face. His cousin. Armin’s baby, Armin’s wife. He couldn’t remember any of them. He could sense something was supposed to be there, but he couldn’t remember what. Home, the cornfield, the silo he painted the base of as a child. His mom’s cooking. The day he got Janet.

...The first time Janet hopped on his bed, the time she broke into the chicken coop and trotted home with one of the fat birds still fluttering in her jaws, all the times she was there when the night was too silent and Marco awoke with his heart in his throat and tears staining his pillow.

Gone.

“Stop!” Marco yelled, his voice shaking. He threw his head back just as Janet’s face started to fade, just as her happy yipping was swallowed up. His leg flew forward into the bug monster with a force he hadn’t used in years, and the shoes he still wore connected with the center of what looked like its chest.

His body was dropped to the floor like a sack of bricks, and his shoulders ached just as if that were exactly what he’d landed on. Marco groaned, but the sound was choked right out of him as the barrel of a gun was shoved right into his forehead.

“What are you doing here?” A voice exploded before him and Marco fell back on his elbows. “ _Who sent you to this place_?”

It took a long moment for him to realize the voice had come from the bug monster. The clicking of its jaws became background noise as a disturbingly human voice leaked from its mouth.

Marco stared up at it, blinking tears of physical and emotional pain from his eyes.

The barrel jabbed closer and Marco was forced onto his back as the thing took a loping step forward, a foot landing heavy on Marco’s chest. “Answer me!” Something snarled down at him, the black tentacles writhing and twisting with jagged energy just behind the thing’s head. “Where are you from?”

Marco panted shaking breaths into the barrel trained right at his face, his brain going blank for a long moment before he could conjure up the words.

The thing seemed content to wait with the gun trained on him as words finally came back. As _memories_ came back.

Armin has a baby named Dmitri Marco. Armin’s wife is named Annie. Marco has a cousin and her name is Mikasa, and she has a slender, pretty face like his. She’s paler however, and lacking in the freckle department.

Janet is his dog and he loves her, even when she broke into the chicken coop and hopped on his bed with a live hen in her jaws.

Marco panted, and the dam broke, tears streaming down his face, a shaking smile twisting his lips. Everything was still there. Everything was still his.

The gun whirring an inch before his nose didn’t even faze him anymore.

“M-my name is Marco Bodt,” he breathed like it was the best news ever. “I’m an astrophysicist from the planet Earth. I was sent by my people to repair a downed satellite and do…something else; I haven’t gotten the second part of my orders yet.” He breathed another sigh of relief. “I was in line of Betelgeuse when a space storm sent something crashing into my ship and then…then you showed up.” The bright green glow of the gun barrel was cooler than it was scary at this point, and Marco tilted his head to get a good look at the monster before him. “What are _you_ doing in this place?”

It swiveled the gun to follow Marco’s movements, and he was stuck staring into the barrel again.

“Do you at least have a name for me to call you before you kill me?”

The thing flinched, its tentacles hissing with the movement. “My name is not for the human tongue,” it growled in a flat voice.

“Then what tongue _is_ it for?”

Marco could imagine a pair of eyes narrowing suspiciously had the thing been human. Or had eyelids “Why the inquiry?”

Marco shrugged, brought back to reality by the snot stuff still binding his hands to the wall. He tried his damnedest to ignore it. “Just curiosity, I suppose.”

Again the thing hesitated, and Marco could feel it debating. “I am a Chameleomorph. Of the Centrifugal arm of what you humans call the Andromeda galaxy.” It spoke with such pride; it was hard to believe it was anything but human even though its appearance suggested otherwise.

“Andromeda, eh?” Marco lifted an eyebrow and whistled, folding one leg over the other. “You’re a long way from home then, aren’t you?”

Marco could hear the bitterness in the thing’s human voice as it laughed. “Believe me, human. I am right where I want to be.”

The way it said it made the hairs on Marco’s arms prickle uneasily. He shifted where he sat, the whirring of the gun ahead of him turning to background noise. “And…where might that be? Exactly?”

The thing took a step back and withdrew its gun into a holster affixed to its thigh. “I suppose…” It paused, and there was something Marco wasn’t a fan of in that pause. Something malign. “You seem like a rather informed human, Marco Bodt, so I will make this easy for you. How far do you _think_ you are from home?”

Marco sat back. “What are you talking about?”

“You are not as intelligent as you let on,” the thing sighed, its mouth clicking again. “I shall explain, then.” It turned back to him, expression unreadable, yet all too telling at the same time. “You are currently orbiting through what you call the Perseus arm of what _you_ call the Milky Way.” The bug thing simpered in the same bitter voice, and a column of light flooded the room as the same door from before melted away. “Welcome to the Crab Nebula.”

Marco’s breath caught in his chest. “Wha—”

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable, however. We are moving rather fast.”

“Wait!” Marco scrambled to his feet despite his hands being bound in the snot stuff. He ran as far as the slimy rope would allow, about four feet in any direction. “Why am I here? Why did you hit me?” he demanded hotly. “What do you want with me?”

The bug monster hesitated, its mouth clicking and growling like it had in the moments before it had stolen the human language from Marco’s head. Its head swiveled around to face him with a crack of its reedy neck, and its onyx gaze sent him a step backward. “Absolutely nothing.”

The door slammed shut, and Marco was plunged back into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter stinks...it's more setting the stage for chapter two which should be posted shortly! Thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> The Crab Nebula is approximately 7,344 lightyears from Earth.


	2. The Lost and The Unwanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The civilization I was born into had no home planet as their own was destroyed by a supernova approximately a century and a half ago. We became star surfers as a result; doomed to be free always, finding refuge in empty space.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening (ironically): "Forbidden Friendship" from the "How to train your Dragon" OST by John Powell.

He awoke to a door slamming and something sliding across the floor to bump against his nose. His eyes opened blearily, and Marco withdrew at the horrid smell floating up from the tray before him. “Augh, what _is_ that?” He pressed his nose into his shoulder and pushed the tray away with his foot.

The bug thing folded itself across the room, its tentacles sweeping the ground before bunching beneath the beast as a makeshift chair. The same clicking from before resonated from its chest, loud enough for Marco to hear. “A sensitive palate, have we?”

“I’ve shoveled horse shit that didn’t reek that bad." Marco heaved.

The thing laughed. It was an odd sound coming from a bug monster, unfit and not right for its vocal chords. “Bon appétit, as you humans say.”

“I’m not eating that.” Marco watched, horrified, as the glob of slime _moved_.

The thing took on a tone of mockery. “Oh, but you may find you like it.”

“I’m almost certain I won’t.” Marco glared in its direction and made a face. “But thanks.”

Its tone remained casual. “I could force feed you.”

For a moment, Marco actually believed it. For a moment, he could believe that such a beast would force him to eat pig slop at gun point like some alien version of _The Human Centipede_.

But then, it laughed.

It _laughed_. Genuinely.

“You make rather entertaining expressions, Marco Bodt,” the bug monster breathed lightly. “But truly, you should eat. Your potassium levels are, as you might say, in the toilet.”

“How do _you_ know about potassium?” Marco glared.

The thing’s mantis head turned to him, and, again, Marco could imagine a human face, someone lowering their eyelids and giving him a knowing smile. “I have an extensive knowledge of things you could not _fathom_ , Mr. Bodt,” it drawled in a meaningful voice. “I’ve seen worlds of such grandeur they could put even your most masterful storytellers to shame with a single glance at the view.” Its tone turned almost wistful as it spoke, before its voice darkened. “And you cannot guess the horrendous orders which I have faced in my time in this world.”

Marco stared at it for a long time, his mind buzzing this way and that. “How can you speak English?”

The bug shook its head. “Even to other civilizations much more advanced than you own, I have been able to do things most others cannot.”

“Like speak English.”

“Like copy the information in the brains of others and implant it into my own.”

Marco started at that. “You… _copied_ my memories?”

The bug twitched, and Marco could see its mantis mouth rolling and folding. “In a way, yes.”

“Then what was all that nonsense the other day with you throwing me all over creation asking about where I came from?” Marco fumed, his teeth grinding audibly.

“Oh, do not sound so offended, my friend,” the mantis simpered, making such a human gesture as to inspect what would have been its fingernails had it any. “Language is the easy part, but…you’ve downloaded a picture before, yes?”

“I think you know the answer.”

It hummed. “Then you are aware of how much longer it takes to download a video than a string of words?”

Marco huffed, but…it did make sense. “You still could have been a little more pleasant,” he grumbled.

It stood and Marco coward close to the wall as it approached. He couldn’t stand the sound of it’s feet scraping the floor, and the hissing of it’s jagged tentacles.

Marco watched with a wary gaze as it crossed the room with much more grace than should have belonged to such a beast before it stooped down and grabbed the tray in one alien hand, and offered Marco the other.

“Your potassium,” the beast said.

Marco stared at that hand, the one that had prodded and pulled at his face only hours before with three insect-like fingers instead of five. He lifted his snot-bound hands and made a face. “I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

The beast’s head rolled much the same as it would have had it been rolling its eyes at him. “You think me insolent, Marco Bodt.” Its hand snatched down at his wrists, and the slime covering Marco’s hands squelched and shuddered before shrinking away entirely. It turned into a tiny ball of rubber in its palm.

Marco tried not to think about how soft his hands were, how whatever that stuff was, it was probably still absorbing into his skin at that very moment. He shuddered again.

“Please eat.”

Marco stared at the smelly tray before him, rubbing his wrists to give his pruny hands something to do other than sit idle in his lap. “What is it?”

The thing stared down at him. “Fine cuisine,” it said, offering the tray further. “Not the finest out there, but enough.”

Marco stared at the untrustworthy slop, then lifted his eyes to the mantis. “How do I know I can trust you?”

The pincers of its mouth twitched, and its head tilted. “Is it really _that_  difficult to trust an unfamiliar face?”

Marco’s eyebrows twitched upward a fraction and he looked away. “Let’s just say that where I come from, when a stranger asks you to eat something questionable, it’s better to go against their wishes. Especially if they've just kidnapped you and copied your memories.” He glanced back to the bug with a faint, defiant smirk. “And mantids aren’t exactly cuddly creatures to boot.”

It was silent between them for a long moment when finally, the alien’s free hand snatched Marco by the wrist and forced him to look at it. “Then I shall grant you this one favor," it promised.

Marco struggled against its firm hold, but froze as its body began to change. Its long, spindly legs shortened and grew muscle. Its hand lightened in color and softened in feel, growing two more fingers. The strangest thing, however, was the sight of its face shifting. The triangular shape rounded before narrowing into a more human oval, and hair sprouted from the top of its head. No longer was its skin a hard exoskeleton, but soft and flexible. Human.

 _He_ was human.

He plopped down before Marco, folding his human legs similar to the other’s and settling the tray in his lap. “Must I eat this also to gain your trust?”

Marco could only stare at him in shocked silence.

He grabbed a handful of the blue sludge and held it up for Marco to take. The alien's hand shook, but not from nerves, more like he was in a shell he was not used to quite yet. His other hand grabbed a larger handful and shoved it right into his mouth. His eyebrows lifted.

Marco was shaken back to reality when that food—whatever it was—was shoved into his face and his nostrils stung with the awful smell once again. His nose crinkled and he leaned away.

“It helps to hold your breath,” the alien said, and shoved another handful into his mouth.

Marco’s hand shook as he reached up for the proffered slime, half from nerves, half from not having eaten in who knows how long. He tested the texture between his thumb and index before bringing it to his mouth.

It was strangely fruity, and not exactly good. He’d had worse, though.

The alien’s human eyebrows lifted farther.

Marco reached for more slime, keeping his eyes down. If he thought of it as fruit snacks or Jell-O it made it far easier to swallow and _keep_ swallowed.

“You’re not dead,” the alien pointed out mildly, and put his eyes on the slowly diminishing tray.

Marco hummed and tried a larger bite. Again, it wasn’t horrible. “I’ve seen my fair share of shit. Eating garbage is new, though.”

The alien laughed. “This is not garbage. You should _see_ garbage. It will make this look like five-star eating.”

Marco’s mouth twitched upwards, before falling into a frown again. He looked forward at the human who wasn’t really a human sitting across from him. “I don’t know your name.”

The alien paused before he could put another bit of sludge into his mouth, then sighed. “My name—”

“Is not for the human tongue, I know.” Marco shook his head. “I need to call you something, though.”

He eyed Marco for a long moment, a smile inching its way onto his thin lips in the meantime. “I do not have a name in human terms. You mustn’t interrupt that which you do not know, Marco Bodt.” The alien grinned. “When I said my name is not for the human tongue, I meant it is unpro _noun_ ceable to the human tongue.”

“Can you at least say it for me?”

The alien shook his head and studied the slime that dripped down the side of his hand, allowing it to slide back onto the tray. “No, I cannot. Not in this form.”

Marco’s insides burned with curiosity. “Then which form _can_ you speak it in?”

The alien blinked, then gave him a sly look. “One I’m afraid I cannot show you. It is a rather frightening sight to behold.”

“Even more than the bug thing?”

The alien’s lips twitched as he thought. “Possibly.” His eyes lingered to the ceiling, his neck craning back. “This ship is far too small to house such a beast in any case. This room in particular.”

Marco rolled his eyes, finding that humans—or at the very least human appearances—made it far easier to act by thought rather than nerves. “What, are you a space god or something? Too big and scary for this world?”

The alien hummed and nodded, considering. “Space god does have a nice ring to it, does it not?” He looked to Marco for input before his eyes fell to his hands. “And ‘too big and scary’ does fit in any case. But I am no god, Marco Bodt. Though I may often take on the appearance of one.”

Marco breathed a laugh and inspected the dirt under his nails. “Brother…” he muttered.

“As you may remember me explaining before, I am a Chameleomorph. You might call it a shape-shifter.” The alien sighed, and something dark flashed behind his eyes when he blinked. “When a Chameleomorph is born, it takes on the current shape of its mother; however, as you have witnessed already, we have no true shape to call our own.”

Marco quirked a single eyebrow, the shaking in his hands slowly starting to fade as whatever was in the Jell-O slime mixture was absorbed into his body. “Then…your mother was too big and scary for this world?”

The alien flashed an almost territorial glance, but it faded and he sighed. “I suppose it is only fair that I dispel information of my own since you so graciously offered your memories to me.” He ignored the annoyed glance thrown in his direction. “The place in which I was born lies between the Dust Lane and Emission Nebulae in Andromeda. We had no planet of our own as it was destroyed in the midst of—” he broke off suddenly, gaze blank as if in epiphany before he zeroed in on Marco once again. “…you call a mourning star a supernova?”

Marco flinched when the alien looked back at him with the first hint of curiosity Marco had ever seen on its face. Marco shrugged. “If Mourning Star is your title for an exploding star, then yes. We call them supernovas. Supernovae.”

The corner of the alien’s mouth twitched upward. “Fascinating,” he hummed. Then he shook his head and looked back to Marco with an almost sobered expression. “The civilization I was born into had no home planet as their own was destroyed by a supernova approximately a century and a half ago. We became star surfers as a result; doomed to be free always, finding refuge in empty space.”

“I’m sorry,” Marco winced. A century and a half of space wandering? Take that Moses.

The alien’s lip twitched once more. “There is no need for pity. We loved it all, truly.” His amber eyes swiveled up to Marco and his lips stretched into a sad smile. “Our planet, Trost, had been on her way out for many centuries before that. We were all too happy to let her out of her misery as a plague of _real_ monsters were suffocating her life source.”

He continued. “I was young and happy when it was discovered what I am.” The alien’s eyes fell, his fingernails scratching the fabric of his dark pants. “You see, as fascinating a talent as we Chameleomorphs have, we are not seen as trustworthy to most.” He huffed a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “You humans had the right thinking in your metaphor of a wolf in sheep’s wool.”

Marco’s eyebrows furrowed and he leaned forward with interest. “I understand the thinking, but you seem like you’d be a great ally to others.” He caught himself and sat up a little straighter. "Isn't there some way you can be detected? DNA or something?"

The alien studied him for a moment before his eyes fell closed. Marco thought the gesture was one of annoyance until the alien’s skin began to change under the low light. His muscles filled, his skin and hair darkened, and his face morphed from long and pale to oval and strong.

The freckles were the last to appear.

The alien’s eyes opened again, and Marco found himself staring into his own reflection. Or copy. Whatever it was, Marco leaned back as his identical glared knowingly at him.

“Tell me, Marco,” the alien said in Marco’s voice. Even the faint drawl was disturbingly spot on. “If I were to rob a bank, do you think I could be captured and brought to justice?”

“Okay,” Marco said with an uneasy breath. “You’ve made your point.”

“Have I?” Not-Marco challenged, and leaned forward with a sinister grin. “Can you find one difference between you and I? Do you believe your _family_ could?” Not-Marco straightened and rolled his neck. "I have none of this DNA to call my own. I am simply a copy-cat."

Marco rolled his eyes in irritation, a hot surge of defense flooding his chest at the mention of his family. His family most definitely _would_ recognize him, but this maniac didn't have to know. Didn't  _deserve_ to know. “Okay. I get it. You guys are shifty.” Marco paused and shook his head. “Pardon the pun.”

Not-Marco laughed. “Oh, but what a fitting pun. Chamelomorphs truly are the shiftiest in the universe. The foxes of Andromeda.” Real-Marco watched as the alien’s face changed again, shifting back to the pale young man with the ashy hair and bright amber eyes. “However,” the alien said, “I do find myself more comfortable in this form than choice others.” He sighed and settled back on his hands and watched Marco with a rather benign expression. “If humans were only a speck larger, I’d be content to remain this way indefinitely.”

Marco appraised him for a long moment, twiddling his thumbs in his lap, chewing his lip. That expression made him easy to talk to, much easier than he already was. “What happened when you were discovered?” Marco wondered aloud, his voice no more than a reverent whisper. His eyes flitted from the alien's to his hands so often it could hardly be considered eye contact.

The alien studied him for a long moment before his eyes tore away and he stared instead at some point beyond Marco’s left ear. “I was exiled,” he said simply, “and before you express your sympathies, that was the more humane of my options. My mother got the other option, God rest her soul.” His eyes slid back to Marco, a knowing grin on his lips.

Marco shuddered to think what the other option had been, but he had an inkling.

The alien got to his feet then, and took in one hand the remains of the blue space slime with him. “Since you seem so insistent on giving me a name, you may choose one for me. But I ask that it not be an insulting one.” He grinned down at Marco, but the gesture did not meet his eyes. He tapped his temple with his free hand. “I’ll know.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Marco scrambled to his feet, stumbling on wobbly knees. “You’re just going to leave me in here?”

The alien paused, lit from behind as the door melted away to reveal the same column of light Marco was growing so accustomed to. “Yes.” He didn’t seem confused, but almost annoyed by the question. “Did you think otherwise?”

Marco sputtered. “Uh, yes, actually. I thought you were trying to establish trust or something. You sat in for a meal.” He scowled into the light, shifting from foot to foot as his legs adjusted to his weight on them. "That's intimacy."

The alien turned back to him entirely, his face amused. “And what has suggested that I am the least bit trusting of you?”

Marco stared at him, his gusto faltering only just slightly. “You… you shared part of your life with me. You told me of your mother and being exiled.”

The alien’s eyebrows lifted. “And?”

Marco could think of nothing else. “That… seems like a pretty big deal to me.”

He was met with a stare like pincers. “Sharing is not equal to trusting, Marco Bodt. That is the first of many things you must learn from me.” The alien straightened its shoulders. “You confuse your trust in me for my trust in you, which might I say is inexistent at this point in time. You fight it, you despise it, yet you _do_ trust me whether you want to or not. Because I am the one force separating you from a short life pin-wheeling through a void of darkness. At this point in time, the fact that I have been exiled for eternity into a freedom I never wanted is a Godsend on your part, but never mistake my telling of _why_ I am in this situation for trust.” His eyes burned with unspoken anger despite being half-lidded. “I know your mind, Marco Bodt, but I do not trust you. You shall do well to not forget that in the future.”

And with that the alien turned on his heel and marched out of the room.

Marco stared after him for a long moment, his eyes adjusting once more to the dim, blue light of the pulsing veins sketching the room like lightning. A bitter frown twisted his mouth, and he crossed his arms tight over his chest.

"Asswipe."

* * *

Time didn’t extend into the boundaries of the room Marco occupied. He would wake and stare at the wall or twiddle with his fingers for what felt like seconds, but were apparently hours according to Jean, who insisted on sitting in for every meal if only to taunt him.

That was the name Marco gave him. Jean. If the alien really was doomed to be free always, then Marco was going to force him to remember everyday.

The door melted open and Jean stepped through, another tray of goo in his hand.

“Ah, Jean, come to meet with the commoners?” Marco drawled as the shape-shifter lithely folded himself before him.

“I am not ignorant to sarcasm, you know,” Jean grinned and gave the tray to Marco. “But I enjoy your humor.”

“Oh, goodie,” Marco said mockingly. His hands shook more than usual, and he found he wasn’t hungry. He was tired, achy, and felt no inclination to torment his olfactory nerves with more space slime.

Jean was not oblivious to the fact. “It’s the same food you have eaten the past six times.”

“I’m aware.” Marco grumbled. He set the tray in the short space between Jean and him, then pulled his knees to his chest and pillowed his forehead on his arms to stall the dull pulsing in his head. “I’m not hungry.”

There was a long pause, and Marco pulled away with a flourish as something soft and cool stroked the side of his jaw. “What are you doing?” he blurted, eyeing Jean’s outstretched hand with venom. “Don’t touch me.”

Jean’s face was serious, thin lips pursed into a line. “Your appearance has changed.”

“If this is a chameleon pun, I’m really not in the mood.”

There was a short silence, and Marco cried out as Jean’s hand struck out once more and drug him forward by the face much faster than any _normal_ human should have been able. Marco’s eyes rolled in pain at the head rush that followed, but had enough strength to snag onto Jean’s wrist and shove him off. He was faster than Marco gave him credit, though, and not a half second had passed before Jean’s other hand had latched onto Marco’s jaw so he was forced to look upward.

Jean scowled into his face. “You have not always been so sallow, Marco Bodt. There is something wrong with your skin.”

Marco struggled again, this time pushing against Jean’s abdomen. Shoving his shoulder into a slab of rock would have been more effective. He couldn’t tell if it was because of his weakness or if Jean was really that strong.

“You are significantly weaker than when we first met,” Jean observed, the scowl still carved between his brows. “Are you near death?”

“I’m de _hydrated_ , you putz.” Marco growled against the pain of Jean’s fingers digging deep into his jaw. “Humans get weak when we don’t drink enough water or see enough sunlight.”

The scowl deepened. “I do not understand,” Jean said through his teeth. “Explain.”

Marco tried in vain to peel Jean’s iron grip from his face. He let his hands drop with a growl, and glared daggers up at him. “For someone with the memories of a human, you’re particularly useless in the task of caring for one.” He grunted as Jean’s grip on his jaw tightened, his own fists tightening into his pant legs and eyes squeezing from pain. He took a deep breath through the nose. “My cells are shrinking," Marco said slowly. "I need to drink something hydrating or my body will start to shut down and I’ll die.”

“What of the sunlight?” Jean demanded.

Marco grunted again and Jean’s grip loosened a hair. “It provides nutrients for humans. I need it _now_ in particular with such low gravity, but sunlight helps me keep from getting sick. I’m pale because I’m getting sick.”

Jean stared at him for a long time. It may not have been as long as he thought, but time dragged for Marco with Jean’s sharp fingers digging into his face.

Then the pressure on his jaw was gone only to be replaced by another, something wrapping tight around his neck. It took a time before Marco recognized his own collar yanked into his esophagus as Jean grabbed a generous handful of his suit and drug him behind him.

“W-what are you doing?” Marco stammered, grabbing Jean’s wrist behind his head to keep from choking. His eyes stung as he was plunged into the light. It didn’t help his headache any. He couldn’t see much around Jean or with his head at such an angle, but he recognized the corridors of a ship, his legs and feet dragging and flailing on the dark floors.

Jean was nearing a massive door at an alarming rate, and Marco didn’t have to understand the strange angular carvings running vertical down the left side to know what it was. His chest tightened instantly, legs scrabbling for register to get away from the maniac before him. “Wait, wait! Stop!”

They neared the airlock still, Jean seemingly unfazed by Marco’s struggling.

Marco’s eyes squeezed tight as his hands on Jean’s wrists. “Wait! Please!”

The door buzzed before sliding open.

Marco screamed as he was thrown forward, his body sliding fast against the floor, sucked into an airless void of freezing cold nothing.

…until he stopped, his face bathed in warm light.

He blinked once up at the ceiling before his head craned back against the floor and he was met with a massive, bubbled window with the sun shining through.

“Humans are extremely odd," Jean said from behind him. “They ask for the sun then scream when you offer it to them.” There was not a drop of sarcasm in his voice, but it was full to the brim with confusion. “You are not going to do the same with this as well, are you?”

He warily held up a transparent bottle before Marco, taking a precautious step back as the other took it.

Marco’s hand shook, and he used his other to push himself up into a sitting position. The bottle was cold enough to sweat against his palm.

He held it against his chest like a security blanket, creaking to his feet with unsteady movements. Marco’s body swayed as he stared out the window running from floor to ceiling and bubbling out into space a good three feet before he took a slow step toward the ledge. The glass was as familiar as glass could be, and Marco sank back down, using the wide ledge as a seat. His shoulders hunched, legs pulled loosely to his chest, and Marco fiddled with the bottle for a moment before his trembling hands finally did what he asked and he could take a sip of water.

It had the same fruity taste as the slime, but it was just as what he was used to. He had to contain himself enough not to guzzle the whole thing down in an instant, sticking to the much smarter of two roads instead and taking tiny sips every few seconds.

After a few minutes that very well could have been an hour of staring at the sun, Marco’s headache faded to nothing more than a dull throb at the front of his head and he leaned into the ovular curve of the window sill, his eyelids drooping as he stared out into the sun.

He flinched and nearly fell when Jean came into the room—or made himself known; he could have been there the whole time for all Marco knew—but even that was not enough to ruin Marco’s warm mood. “Where are we?” Marco recognized the stars and not all the same, like a vague recollection in the back of his mind.

Jean was quiet for a long moment. “I believe you human’s call it the Heat Nebula of Perseus.” His expression was a smooth mixture of sobered and confused when Marco glanced over his shoulder at him. “It is a little hazy.”

Marco blinked, then turned back to the stars passing them by. If his thinking was correct, he’d only been here a total of two and a half days, and already they were in the Heat Nebula nearly five thousand lightyears from the Crab. Two and a half days and Marco had traveled farther than any known human in history. He pushed the thought away before it could blossom into something that would surely make him sob uncontrollably.

“Why is it hazy?” he asked to distract him from his thoughts. “My last astronomy class was less than a year ago. It should be pretty fresh to you.”

“I am afraid that is not how memory coding works,” Jean said with a regretful shake of his head. “I can only keep so much information at a time; that which is useless or unused fades after a short while.”

Marco blinked as the sun rotated into view for the umpteenth time since sitting there. “Would you elaborate on that, please?” He pulled his knees just closer as Jean settled across the window sill from him.

Jean’s legs were outstretched, his left ankle crossed over his right, and his fingers laced over his stomach. He stared out into the stars just as Marco. “Your individual memories are useless to me; I have no need for them. But I must speak English for you to understand. I have no need for understanding vernaculars or particular lexicons as I have no plans of going to Earth in the foreseeable future, so I speak quite basically; neither in eloquent verse nor shortened language.”

The space between Marco’s eyebrows puckered as he scowled his confusion into the stars. “You speak more eloquent than most people _I_ know,” he pointed out.

“That will fade with time as well, I suppose,” Jean sighed. “Once we have parted ways, I’m sure I will forget how to speak this language entirely. Already I cannot remember why you chose the name you did for me.” His eyes floated to Marco’s in question. “Would you enlighten me?”

Marco dared to peek at him through the corner of his eye before gazing down at his hands. “Jean-Paul Sarte was a human philosopher who bred the idea that all men are doomed to be free to do as they please rather than perform some holy inherited role.”

Jean nodded, an amused spark in his eye. “Ah, yes, I recall some of it now. He was meant to be a reminder to me that I am doomed to forever be free.”

Marco’s insides prickled at the reminder of how petty he could be when he was angry. He sort of felt bad for it now.

Not bad enough, though, to change the name.

It was silent between them, only the low thrum of Jean's ship sifting through space, when Jean spoke up again.

“I do not trust you, Marco Bodt,” he started, and Marco was instantly annoyed. The corners of Jean’s lips tickled with a smile at the glare shot in his direction. “Let me finish, please,” Jean grinned. “I do not trust you, but I am rather fond of your sense of justice.”

Marco’s eyes narrowed, but he didn't look at Jean. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The grin was still there, and Jean gazed out into the unending blanket of stars just outside the window. “I’m sure you would like to hit me most times—I would advise you not to for your own wellbeing—and yet you have a way of getting back at me which avoids the physical. You were under the belief that I was unkind to you so gave me a name that serves as reminder of my ill fate, and I rather respect that.” Jean turned back to Marco, and Marco caught a glimpse of something vulnerable in his gaze for a fraction of a second. “You seem to be a human who uses his head without conscious thought. Using your brain against others serves as natural instinct to you.”

Marco wasn’t sure how to take the sentiment; it was kind and not at the same time. He had been complimented and insulted in a single, simultaneous blow. “Uh…thank you?”

Jean shrugged. “Take from it what you will, I am indifferent toward your feelings for me.”

Marco rolled his eyes and took a large swig of water, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before speaking. “Why do you have to do that?”

Jean looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Pardon?”

Marco tilted his head in annoyance. “You say something that might _actually_ be considered nice, and then end it with an insult that makes me hate you all over again.” He grumbled to himself. "It's fucking _annoying_ as hell."

The eyebrows raised farther. “It is not my intention to be brusque with you. I am merely telling the truth.” Jean’s arms crossed over his chest and he leaned back against the curved window pane. “You confuse my indifference to you for malice. Do you consider it murderous when ridding your home of vermin?”

“So that’s how you see me? As _vermin_?” Marco grinned with venom. “Great to know.” He rose with all the grace of a water-starved diva: that is, with zero percent grace and one-hundred percent head rush. “You have the social graces of sandpaper, Jean." Marco stood, wincing for a moment as his equilibrium came back to him before moving back the way Jean had drug him earlier and leaned against the wall of his cell. He hadn’t a clue how to get the door open, and no way was he going to ask Jean for help after that; he was too angry, and knew he wasn't _that_ nice if Jean decided to toss him another "I'm only speaking the truth" quip. 

Marco sank to the ground with his knees hunkered to his chest and hands tangled in his hair. He released a shaking breath.

An alarm like a bucket of acid dumped right into his brain and snapped Marco’s head up so hard it slammed into the wall behind him. He groaned as the pain in his forehead exploded into his eyes. The heels of his hands shoved into his sockets in a futile attempt to shove the pain away.

He was only scared from his position by footsteps exploding down the corridor to his left, opposite the direction he had left Jean.

Marco opened his eyes only to cower against the wall as something large and loud stomped past him with a deranged snort in his direction. It reminded him a bit of a rhinoceros, only with four horns running up the length of its nose. And it was a little squatter than what he imagined a real rhino to look like; the leathery skin was a deep, marbled green, shiny like glass. The sound of its feet striking the ground was something akin to glasses quaking in a China hutch.

Marco watched it round the corner, past the airlock he thought Jean was going to toss him through not an hour ago, and into the control room with the large, bubbled window. He thought nothing of it until a loud crash like metal crumbling echoed down the corridor followed by what Marco would have guessed was the rhinoceros bellowing.

He scrambled to his feet, his head throbbing from the movement, and crept forward to peek around the corner.

The rhino-thing had Jean by the throat, and a gutted panel behind them fizzled and popped with sparks. It roared something in Jean’s face, the rhino-thing, something Jean seemed utterly unfazed by. _Jeez, did_ nothing _get to this guy?_

Marco couldn’t understand the language, and wasn’t even sure the rhino-thing was angry. Its voice, however loud, wasn't exactly tense. It was the language itself that made the air thick. Like Russian, or German.

Or the right kind of Scottish.

Jean said something that made the rhinoceros bellow right in his face, his eyes squeezing shut as his hair was shot back by the sheer force of the thing’s breath. He chuckled as the thing recovered from its outburst, his hands lifting in the air as if in a nonchalant surrender. He spoke calmly despite his feet being lifted a whole foot from the ground.

Something about the whole situation made Marco’s stomach twist. Something about the person piloting this ship being in danger, no matter how much a jackass he may be, made Marco’s hands shake with something unlike dehydration. He hated Jean, but he hated the aggression that thing displayed even more.

Marco ducked out of the way as something blasted off before being thrown away from the control room. It hit the wall opposite Marco before clattering to the ground two feet from him.

Marco recognized the green-ish glow of Jean’s gun.

He coward again at the sound of the marble rhinoceros roaring loud enough that Marco’s ears rattled before Marco scrambled forward for the gun. It was heavy in his grip and Marco pressed his back flush against the wall as something else crashed in the control room, still unaware what he was going to do with it now. This wasn’t a human gun, and he had no idea how powerful the kickback would be.

Still…Jean needed him, at the very least the gun.

Marco peeked around the corner again.

Jean was held dangerously close to the rhino-thing’s face, his mouth twisted into a snarl as the rhino growled something at him. Jean’s face was turning blue from the grip on his neck. That thing was  _definitely_ angry now.

Something triggered inside of Marco, a match lit in his chest, and he swung the gun forward, taking quick aim and shooting before he had time to think.

The kickback was worse than he could have imagined. The barrel flew back hard enough that not only did he see a white light, he heard it too. Though that could very well have been his nose snapping.

He dropped the gun in favor of the blood gushing from his nostrils and the white-hot explosion between his eyes. Marco fell backward, and groped his face in both hands. He didn’t hear the sound like a marble statue hitting the ground.

Blood dribbled over the curve of Marco's pursed lips, dotting little beads on his suit and white undershirt.

Jean was there in a flash, but scrambled back a step at the sight of the blood pooling onto the floor. “What is the matter with your face?” His own was pale, but flushing with blood that had been cut off when that thing had its meaty hands around his neck. “Marco Bodt, are you aware that your face is leaking?”

“Oh, my god, it’s just _blood_!” Marco snarled, spitting a mouthful of red as it dripped into his mouth. “My nose is broken no thanks to you!”

Jean stared at him with blank disgust.

“Get me a towel or something!” Already Marco’s head swam from blood loss, his weak body being pushed to the limit. His hands trembled against his face, his sleeve soaked through as tiny tears of pain squeezed from his eyes.

Marco yanked the offered towel from Jean’s hands much harder than he normally would have and shoved it into his face, crying out as the rough fabric skated across his sensitive nose. He breathed a shaking sigh into the towel and sat back, pressing the base of his head to the wall.

Jean still stared at him as if _Marco_ were the shape-shifter.

Marco couldn’t bear to look at him. He was too disgusted and humiliated with himself to look at anything other than the blood-soaked towel shoved up his nose.  He glared holes into the space between his feet.

Jean’s hands wrung at his sides as he stared down at Marco sulking on the floor. Jean gulped, and the movement hurt his aching throat. “Your nose is broken,” he said slowly.

Marco scoffed and ripped the towel from his face, skin already tacky as the blood began to dry. “Wow. You are _such_ a genius,” he groused sardonically, glaring up at Jean and folding the towel over to a dry spot. “A real _fuckin_ ’ dynamo.” Marco’s voice was muffled against the towel once more.

The only sounds for a long time were Marco’s panting, the steady whirring of Jean’s gun a good five feet away, and the occasional crackle as whatever had been broken in the control room fizzled and sparked. Marco spat more blood onto the floor between his legs and shifted his glare back to Jean twitching and fidgeting uneasily before him. “Had your fill?” he demanded hotly.

The pallor of Jean’s face had not yet returned to full effect and he looked sallow. “Your nose is broken.”

“Yes. I thought we’d established that much.”

“I do not have enough towels on this ship to keep up with your bleeding forever.”

Marco’s glare sharpened. “I’m not _going_ to bleed forever! _Look_!” The rims of his nostrils were crusty with dried blood, hands sticky and shiny to the same effect.

Marco pulled the towel from his face and threw it to the floor. “It’s clotting.”

“But your nose is broken.”

Marco sighed through his mouth in frustration, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It did noting but send a splinter of pain through the center of his face. “I’ll reset it later when the bleeding has stopped entirely.”

Jean fell silent. “… it... will stop?”

Marco glared at him, but his expression was genuine. Baffled.

Marco sighed again, his voice lowering a few decibels. “Yes, it will stop. My body will heal itself in about an hour.” He groaned to think of resetting his nose. He already knew the pain of a reset finger, and dreaded the thought of that pain shooting through his face.

An hour later, Marco blew the remaining bubbles of blood from his nose and used the rest of his water to clean his face and hands. He winced as the crusty bits pulled at the skin around his nostrils.

Jean floundered about behind him the whole time, watching like a frightened child as Marco cleaned his face.

“A picture would last longer,” Marco grumbled as he brushed past Jean. He’d unbuttoned the top of his suit and pulled off the blue sleeves to reveal the white (well, now _mostly_ white) undershirt, using the hanging upper half as a makeshift belt tied around his waist.

Marco was grateful for the bathroom chamber Jean showed him, but it was a nuisance looking behind him every few seconds to Jean still staring at him like he’d have to dump yet _another_ body through the airlock.

“Okay, look,” Marco sighed. “I’m sorry for freaking out on you earlier, okay? But could you _please_ stop staring at me like that? I won’t start bleeding again.”

Jean’s scrutinizing eyes never left his face. “You cannot fix your face by yourself. The pain will stop you.”

Marco stared at him for a long moment. “You remember when I fixed my brother’s nose?”

Jean straightened, keeping the pandering to a minimum. “I would be able to remember better if you would allow me access to your brain again.” He took a step into the bathroom.

Marco leaned back into the sink, putting a hand between them. “I don’t think so.”

Jean’s eyes flashed. “I will not take as much as before. I do not have to download your language or frisk your memories.”

“I said no,” Marco insisted, his hand planted firmly on Jean’s chest. “I’ll teach you instead, but you aren’t going to crawl around in my head again.”

Jean rolled his eyes. “It’s hardly _crawling_ —”

Marco gave him a look.

Jean sighed, and took a reluctant step back. “As you wish.”

Marco nodded. “Okay. Sit over there.” He pointed to the toilet. “You have to find where the broken cartilage is first. My nose is really,”—he glanced at himself in the mirror above the sink; dark-haired replica of Owen Wilson—“messed up.” He walked up to Jean. “Do you mind if I touch your face?”

Jean raised his eyebrows, but nodded once.

“Okay. See how the bridge of your nose is straight on either side?” Marco used his pinky fingers to trace the line of Jean’s nose on either side. Jean did the same after him. “And see how there is a big bump on the side of mine? Please be gentle.” He took Jean’s cool hands in his and guided his fingers down the sides of his nose, wincing.

Jean nodded, scowling in concentration as his fingers slid over Marco’s face. “It must be pushed back in.”

Marco flinched at his tone. Like he was speaking of some enemy that must be defeated. “Uh, right. Here.” Marco took Jean’s hands again and put Jean’s palms on either of his cheeks so that the pads of Jean’s thumbs lined the sides of Marco’s nose. “It’s best if you use your thumbs. Be sure they are lined up directly parallel to each other or you can break my nose the other way.”

Jean kept that scowl through the whole explanation process, totally focused even as he switched places with Marco and retook position on Marco’s face.

Only once did his eyes look away from the task at hand. “Do not throw your head back,” Jean advised, staring deep into Marco’s eyes, saying the exact thing Marco had to his younger brother.

Then his thumbs squeezed Marco’s nose so hard the pop of cartilage ricocheted through Marco’s brain like a gun shot.

Marco grunted and stamped his feet on the floor, his eyes squeezing so tight tears spilled out over his cheeks. His hands balled into shaking fists in his pants, but he controlled himself enough not to pull away.

The pressure left the bridge of his nose and slapped hard against his face as Jean scowled at his nose to be certain it was straight again.

Marco froze at the piercing amber eyes staring down at him a mere two inches from his face, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. Heat rose to his cheeks.

“I believe that is good,” Jean sighed and straightened, and Marco clamped his mouth shut as Jean’s breath hit his face in a cool gust.

Marco blinked again and more tears streaked his cheeks.

“Or not.” Jean scowled again, his nose scrunching as he inspected Marco even closer, his hands on his thighs as he looked into Marco's face. “I’m afraid I may have broken your eyes in the process of fixing your nose.”

“My eyes are fine,” Marco sniffed and leaned away. He scrubbed one eye with the heel of his hand, but winced as an ounce of pain lanced up the bridge of his nose. "Thank you,” he rasped and cleared his throat.

“They are leaking.”

“Because that _hurt_ ,” Marco chuckled with raspy humor. “Like a _bitch_ that hurt.” He sniffed again, tenderly pinching the bridge of his nose. “But thank you.”

Jean stood and looked thoughtful for a long moment, his head tilting to one side. “I should thank you as well.”

Marco glanced up from where he’d been zoning out, his index and thumb gingerly tracing the length of his nose to feel for any bumps that could have been missed. “Pardon?”

Jean stood to his full height, his shoulders straightening with a dignified expression. “That fellow you shot earlier was bad news; a real charmer from the Centripetal Arm of Andromeda. I thought I had him well under control, but, had you not been there,” Jean’s eyebrows twitched and a rueful smile tickled his lips. “Well, things would not have looked very well for me. So, I thank you, Marco Bodt. For saving my life.” Jean’s eyebrows twitched again, downward this time, and his expression morphed into one of confusion. “Why did you save me, if I may ask?”

It was Marco’s turn to look confused. “Why?” he asked. “Why not? You already said I trust you more than I should.”

Jean blinked. “You do not know me.”

Marco’s eyebrows puckered. “I don’t have to know you to want to help you.”

That sentiment, however logical in Marco’s mind, was obviously not the first guess in Jean’s. A deep line formed between his brows as he thought it through, but even then, it did not seem to make much sense.

He blinked then, and glanced back to Marco, his lips quirking up into a half-smile. “Humans have far different customs than I first came to believe, then.” There was something odd about his gaze, something pondering that had never been there before. “Finish cleaning yourself, Marco Bodt.”

Marco sat up and wiped his nose with the damp towel in the sink. “Thanks.”

Jean nodded and turned to leave.

“Jean?” Marco faltered when Jean glanced over his shoulder back at him. “Uh, just Marco’s fine now.”

The half-smile returned to Jean’s lips, and he even bowed just slightly. “As you wish, Marco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jean, pin-wheeling through the vacuum of space, after being shoved out of the airlock by Marco probably: As...you...wish...!


	3. The Music and The Miserable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That may not seem odd to the likes of you who has not even breached the edge of his home galaxy until now, but to me it is greatly disturbing.” Jean growled. “This is usually a high-traffic area at it’s slowest. We should have passed someone by now.”

The control room stunk of fried wires and something like burning hair when Marco finally sopped up the last of the blood from the collar of his undershirt. The shaking in his legs had receded to nothing more than a faint wobble in his knees that would be cured after eating something, and Marco tread into the control room with light, slow steps.

He was met with the clatter of metal on metal, and a string of what he instantly knew to be curses of an unintelligible manner. Even if they were in an alien language.

Jean was not in Jean form, but Marco recognized the tone of his voice. Or, voic _es_.

Whatever beast he chose this time had multiple arms as well as multiple voices. The fluffy ears twitched and swiveled as he worked in the underbelly of one of the control panels, a long, striped tail swishing across the floor in agitation. One purple and yellow striped arm tossed what looked like a wrench behind him, Jean muttering under his breath as the wrench struck the bubbled window with a sharp, warped sound.

“Need a hand?” Marco asked, and quite enjoyed when Jean jumped and yowled like a cat. He enjoyed even more when two green, cat-like eyes flitted to him with what was probably surprise, but could easily have been translated into fear.

That fear flashed into anger, and Jean’s cat ears folded down flat. “Do not do that!” his voices snarled in disgust.

Marco even saw his fur bristle. It reminded him of something that happened to Janet whenever a storm was rolling in, and he laughed to cover up the tightness in his chest at thinking of her. “I can work on that other one if you’d like,” Marco offered, gesturing to the suspiciously spark-less control panel on the other end of the room.

The long-haired ears twitched again, and Jean popped his head up once more. “You are familiar with circuit boards?” Marco spotted pearly-white fangs beyond Jean’s hairy lips.

Marco took another step forward, craning his neck to peek at the colorful circuits. “I know the human ones. Can you remember if they are very similar?”

Jean didn’t lift his head this time, all six of his arms working on wires and boards and clippers. “Unfortunately no, but I will let you try. I will be in need of that board soon.”

Marco stepped over to it, inspecting the damage. “May I ask what for?”

There was a crackle as Jean pulled something from the bowels of the panel with his bottom most left arm. “Well, we must keep moving, yes? That board manages the hydraulic pressure of our engines in the hull. As of now we are only moving at half capacity with our other four engines.”

Marco blinked into the circuit board, inspecting ripped wires and cracked receiver plates. “Where are we going?” he wondered.

Jean muttered something under his breath in a curly language Marco did not understand.

“I speak English, Jean,” Marco reminded as he crawled deeper into the dark crevice of the board to inspect the tangled nest of wires bunched beneath the panels. He was met with more murmuring and the faint tweak of a wire shredder cranking away.

“Ah, yes,” Jean hummed, not entirely to Marco. “Your home planet is in the arm called Orion, yes?” Two of his arms gripped the ledge of the circuit board, keeping him level as he leaned forward deep inside to connect two shattered circuit boards with a soldering iron.

“Closest to the Helix Nebula, yes.” Marco nodded, and connected two wires back together. He didn’t want to think of home at the moment; he’d gone through enough pain already in the last two hours.

Jean’s voices made a strange growling sound, not unlike a purr. When he stood to stretch his legs, the joints in his haunches creaked and popped, and Marco watched as one pair of arms stretched above Jean’s head, one stretched before his chest, and the bottom most stretched down the line of his back. Jean grunted, shaking his head much like a cat after being scratched behind the ears. His face reminded Marco of a purple and yellow Maine Coon.

“This ship has been programmed to know exactly how far it can travel before it must be refueled,” Jean informed, one of his right hands scratching behind his ear. “As of current, it orbits near your Messier 103. Originally I had planned to stop somewhere in the Trifid Nebula of the Sagittarius Arm, but with you as a passenger, my plans have been forced to changed.”

Something budded in Marco’s chest and he sat back on his heels. Was Jean…offering to take him home? The bud swelled. It reminded Marco of a book he’d once read. It was focused on Hanahaki disease, a mythical disease in which the sufferer sprouts flowers in their lungs when they feel unrequited love until they suffocate and die.

He wasn’t feeling love, but hope, and it was powerful enough to make his throat collapse.

“With the added weight of your ship below deck, it appears my own ship is inefficiently burning more fuel than normal, and I must make a pit stop before we pass Messier 52.” Jean glanced out the oval window over his shoulder before turning his cat face back to Marco. “I had originally intended to keep you indefinitely once I found a use for you, but seeing as you saved my life and have fixed part of my ship, I feel a favor is in order. And I’ve found I’m no good at hosting others.”

“Can you take me back to Orion?” Marco asked, eyes wide and hopeful, ignoring entirely the sentiment of being held captive by Jean forever.

Jean’s cat nose twitched. “You don’t have to decide immediately, but I suppose.” He looked back to the window, out to the stars, and shivered wildly. The purple and yellow fur on his arms and face folded back into his skin, and the two bottom sets of arms shrank into his torso with an odd stretching sound. The tail disappeared and Marco was left staring at the human Jean with his black armor that reminded Marco of S.W.A.T. gear with a space-age twist. “Would you like to see your ship?”

Marco straightened, hands sliding from the wires and into his lap. “You would let me?”

Jean nodded.

Marco hadn’t known how expansive Jean’s ship really was until they trekked down into the inner most workings of the hull to the cargo freight. “I gotta say, I didn’t expect you to keep my ship.” Marco babbled to fill the silence. “Why did you, anyway?”

Jean was curt, but compliant. “I figured I may be able to use it for parts, and am not an advocate for space trash.”

A tiny smile itched the corners of Marco’s mouth. “You didn’t take anything did you? I have a lot of stuff in there that I kind of need.” _Like my laptop, and the picture of Janet hanging the the control room._

“I have no need for your belongings.” Jean said in a flat voice.

Marco sighed and picked up the pace. “Okay, good because I have some food in there that we could use instead of that blue stuff, and I think you could get some good use out of listening to some music; you look like you’d be an opera fan, but some of the musicals I have downloaded are close enough. Have you ever listened to music before? It’s pretty great, very cathartic and it’s been proven to lower depression.”

Jean’s gaze was deadpan as they stepped out of the elevator and into the cargo paddock, Marco still rambling Jean’s ears off.

“My cousin has pretty bad depression and she went through this six-month phase where she would listen to nothing but bluegrass for the damnedest reason. I don’t even think she liked it that much, but she did get better. She comes from a family that doesn’t believe in taking antidepressants and it really affected her thinking, you know? And she doesn’t like talking very much so a therapist was out, so she just stuck with the bluegrass, played it day and night. Then one day she and I were out walking and we passed the humane society and she just stopped and begged me to go inside—oh, there she is!”

Marco was referring to his ship, not his cousin, and he jogged up to the airlock. There was a large hole ripped in the side not five feet from the door, and Marco lay a hand on the shredded metal. He didn’t step inside until receiving a permissive nod from Jean still walking toward the ship at a leisurely pace.

He stepped gingerly into what was left of the kitchen, avoiding shrapnel and utensils strewn across the floor. There was no power inside, so he treaded blind, staring at his feet for the most part.

Everything else was in working order, if a little worse for wear. He climbed to the cargo bay, his muscles weak from the low gravity of space and Jean’s ship.

It was dark inside, the flood lights from the paddock offering only a few feet of light into the control room through the window, and Marco caressed the walls with light fingers till he grazed what he was looking for.

The picture of he, Janet, and Mikasa was only three by five inches, portrait style, but it was the one picture he taped to the wall beside the main control panel to give him something to look at while flying. Mikasa had her arms around Janet, whose tongue lolled out of her mouth in a big, slobbery mess that had dripped onto Marco’s jeans that day. Janet was just a puppy, three months at most, but a gum disease had made all others turn away in favor of a healthier dog, but Mikasa fell in love at first sight of her crooked right ear and chocolate brown eyes.

Marco adopted Janet for Mikasa as an early Christmas gift, and housed and trained her on his farm while Mikasa was in school. Janet was good force for both of them, offering someone for Marco to talk to while he worked on the computer or out in the field, and lending a friend in lieu of Marco when Mikasa was home for the weekend and he had to work graveyard.

She was a good dog, good enough that Marco didn’t even mind that he had to brush her teeth.

He didn’t notice the tears prickling his eyes until footsteps echoed into the room, and Marco hastily wiped them away as Jean stepped into the room as another face, one with no nose and bioluminescent skin that reflected off the walls. Jean’s black eyes made a slippery sound each time he blinked with transparent eyelids.

“I had to disconnect the engine, I’m afraid.” He said in a squishy voice, and all Marco could think was _fish_. “Human mechanics are incredibly inefficient and needlessly complicated.”

“Did you turn the key?” Marco wondered and craned his neck to check. He hadn’t. In fact, every dial and switch that would turn off the ship was just the way Marco had left them: on.

Jean blinked again, the bioluminescence of his skin acting as a nice flashlight. “What key?”

Marco laughed to keep the tears from flowing once more. “Never mind.” He shook his head, chuckling again. “Would you come with me to grab my laptop? I can’t see a thing in here.”

Jean nodded, and Marco led the slanted way to the pod room with the bunk beds. Walking on curved flooring was harder than it looked, and Marco stumbled more than once. One instance ended with Marco losing his footing and nearly falling backward, but he was caught in Jean’s sticky, scaly arms. “Thanks.” Marco’s face burned.

He left with only his laptop and the picture of Janet and Mikasa, and a spare blanket from his bunk. “So, what do you do around here? I mean, aside from kidnapping astronauts and shattering glass rhinos.” Marco slid a wry glance in Jean’s direction.

Jean didn’t seem to understand the joke. “I have a library. I normally read or write when I have time.”

Marco’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “That’s it? No hobbies?”

Jean shook his head, ashen hair sprouting on his head, his eyes shrinking. The whites of his human eyes bled into the shiny, black ink of his fish eyes. He cracked his neck, the muscles in his human throat flexing and rolling. “No. I am a one-man crew. I have much to do and very little time to exhaust myself more.”

Marco paused, eyes trailing about the floor, then the ceiling and the soft lights. It was impressively clean in nearly every room of the ship. “What’s her name?” he asked.

Jean’s hand traced the wall as he passed. “She is the Kirchstein.”

Marco nodded. A strange name, yet oddly fitting. “Pretty.”

Jean nodded as well. “Yes.”

Silence fell between them on gentle feet, not uncomfortable like most others that took up the space between them. Marco’s eyes flitted up to Jean and away again every few seconds, and his fingers drummed a rhythm into the side of his laptop. “So…you don’t have any hobbies…”

The corners of Jean’s mouth twitched. “Are you in need of speech therapy?”

Marco’s lips stretched into a full grin that activated the full force of his dimples and he chuckled at Jean’s weak joke. “I was going to ask you…” Marco hedged.

Jean’s eyebrow quirked. “Yes?”

Marco bit his lip, smiling at himself mostly. “Would you…like to watch a movie?”

* * *

 

Jean, it seemed, was the worst person in the universe to decide which movie to watch. For ten minutes he insisted that he had no interest in human cinematography, that he had far too much to do, but still he loomed over Marco’s shoulder as he scrolled through the scanty selection in his terabyte drive. It would have bothered Marco, if it weren’t the funniest thing he’d dealt with since being brought here.

“Of the shows you aren’t going to watch,”—Marco rolled his eyes to glare up at Jean staring over Marco’s shoulder at his laptop screen— “would you prefer something with singing or not?”

Jean raised a stark eyebrow, his fingers twisting around something similar to a socket wrench. “I do not understand.”

Marco made a face. “You know, music?” He hummed something, patting his thighs as a makeshift drum set. “Music?”

Jean only stared at him.

A sigh deep in the cavity of Marco’s chest made Jean’s head tilt the other way, much like a dog. “Criminy. You need to get out more.”

Jean made a face, glaring down at Marco with knowing annoyance. “I have been _getting out_ for decades.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “And yet you don’t know what music is.” He narrowed his eyes up at Jean, smiling impishly. “I think you’ve just been getting out to all the wrong places, my friend.”

Jean sucked in a deep breath through his nose, standing to his full height and stepping away from the window sill. “I do not have time for this. I must fix this control panel.”

Marco rolled his eyes again and flapped his mouth mockingly. “You’ve been saying that for fifteen minutes,” he muttered to himself.

“And it is just as true now as it was fifteen minutes ago.” Jean smirked when Marco looked startled over his shoulder at him, and tapped at his ear. “I hear far better than you might think, Marco Bodt.”

Marco stared at him for a moment longer before he turned back to the menagerie of movie titles on his screen with a thoughtful glance. “Wait, Jean.” He pushed away from his laptop and caught up with him, only a little put off at how cold Jean’s shoulder was compared to his hand, even through the course fabric of Jean's gear. “Here.” Marco slid the socket wrench from Jean’s hand and nodded to his laptop. “You said I was good at fixing things. Why don’t you sit down for a little while and I’ll get to work on this?”

Jean stared at the socket wrench in Marco’s hands for a long moment, like he couldn’t believe someone had actually taken it from him. His eyes flashed up to Marco’s. “Why?”

Marco’s lips quirked in an almost endearing way. “Because I think this will be good for you.” He took Jean by the shoulders again, the cool of Jean’s body no longer at the forefront of his mind, and steered him to the blanket nest set up before the bubbled window. Marco pointed to the nest. “And because that rhino thing may have injured you more than originally thought. Your neck is starting to bruise.”

Jean’s hand flew up to the side of his neck, his fingertips grazing the wide, long stripe where one of the glass rhinoceros’ fingers had pressed especially hard. He flinched, and scowled at his fingers. “That is what this is? Human bodies are feebler than I first came to believe.”

Marco rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time and pressed “Play” on the computer, and pointed at the blanket nest again. “Sit.”

“I am not a child,” Jean argued.

“I think you’ll find yourself enjoying this one,” Marco countered with a knowing grin just as the beginning credits started, and a clash of cymbals sounded from his crumby speakers. His nose crinkled as he leaned in to Jean, his arms folded across his chest. “It’s nice and _angsty_.”

Jean did not look amused, but the strain of the violins seemed to tug at his attention. His eyes kept flitting from Marco’s smirk to the laptop panning a view of a large boat and the opening scene of _Les Misérables_. He stood adamant, however.

Marco loved watching him like that, but didn’t feel like risking it. “Tell you what,” he said, shifting his weight to his left hip and keeping his fingers tight around the socket wrench in case Jean thought of being funny. “We’ll make a compromise: how about we switch off every fifteen minutes? Since you’ve never seen this one, you start over there,”—Marco pointed to the blanket nest where the sun, whichever one it may be, streamed warm beams over the sill— “and I’ll start with the circuit board.”

He could already see Jean’s attention as it seeped into the spaces between his laptop’s keyboard. Jean’s resolve was cracking, and it was the best thing Marco had ever seen.

Then Jean’s amber eyes zipped back to Marco’s, and Marco stood straight as he was caught staring. “Fine,” Jean said. “Fifteen minutes, then I will get back to fixing _my_ ship.”

Marco smiled, winding his arms behind his back and bowing just slightly. “Enjoy your movie.”

Jean hardly made a sound as he made himself comfortable before the screen.

And he did not move when the fifteen minutes was up. In fact, he did not move until the movie was finished, and the end credits rolled across the screen.

Marco was just getting the hang of the alien instruments, just familiar enough that he could tell which tool to use next, and placed the gutted face back onto the circuit board. There was a large dent near the bottom, but unless Jean had some kind of rubber mallet, it would have to do for now. “So,” Marco took a step back to admire his handiwork, pleased that every toggle and switch lit up when he flipped the main power switch and energy was flooded into the board once more. “What did you think?”

Jean did not move his eyes from the screen. When Marco turned to see if he had heard him, he saw Jean’s mouth hanging open slightly. The sight made a smile tickle the corner of his lips.

“That bad, huh?”

“Ah-hum?” Jean blinked as if he were ripped from another plane of existence, and shook his head as Marco turned the laptop over to search another title. “What? No. It was…intriguing. Those events did happen in the past, yes?”

Marco hummed. “Some of ‘em, yeah. The French Revolution really happened, but the characters are fictional.” The mouse floated over another title, one _Les Mis_ had put him in the mood for. “What did you think of the music?”

Jean stared into space, his face blank as he shrugged. “I have never heard such noises before.”

“Well... were they good noises?”

He paused a moment. “I believe so. What was the instrument they used, string I believe it was, but it conjured a deeper sound?” He glanced at Marco, his eyebrows knitted in confusion. “That one I believe is my favorite.”

Marco scowled as well, thinking. “That could be a bass or a cello. I’ll play some other music for you to find out later. Would you like to watch another?”

Jean glanced back at the laptop, and the usual expression of stoicism took over once again. “I must get that engine to full capacity.” He stood, and his human knees creaked in a way that made him look at his legs in concern before his eyes moved back to Marco. “You may watch, however. Since I was distracted longer than promised.” He hopped down from the sill in one lithe move that made no sound and made to walk out of the room, but Marco stopped him.

“I can help,” he called.

“You have helped enough,” Jean replied over his shoulder. “And I must go outside of the ship for this repair, in any case.”

“I have a suit.” _I_ had _a suit_. Marco stood and followed behind Jean a step. “Please, Jean. I don’t like doing nothing. Let me help. Please.”

The truth of the matter was Marco didn’t want to _think_. He enjoyed his movies, he enjoyed singing along to his favorite songs, but he couldn’t stand to at the moment. They brought back too many memories he couldn’t push away. What he _needed_ was to work, preferably on something foreign and complicated that required his full attention. Like fixing an engine on an alien ship.

Jean froze at the edge of the room, then turned very slowly. Something in Marco’s expression must have spoken to him, as Jean turned back to the corridor and walked away swiftly.

“Make certain your suit is still functional,” he called over his shoulder. “I will not go fishing for your corpse in the void.”

A bright smile, broke over Marco’s face, and he skipped forward to catch up with Jean’s swift pace.

* * *

 

Whatever creature Jean had morphed into reminded Marco more of a slime mold than a conscious being. Or something straight out of _The Blob_. Whatever it was, Jean couldn’t speak in that form, but he could work faster than anything Marco had ever seen. Instead of picking up and putting down tools, it absorbed them, then spit them back out when needed. It covered the whole southern half of the ship like a parasite, pulsing faintly and sliding parts into place. The one thing it could not seem to do, the one thing Marco could actually help it with, was welding bits of metal back together. The job wasn’t pretty—Marco found it ridiculously hard to focus when a giant pink blob held him by the waist—but it was functional, and Jean seemed perfectly content with functional.

He transformed back into something with vocal chords once the bulk of the engine was intact once more, but it wasn’t much better than the thing before. This thing reminded Marco of a naked dog— _don’t think of Janet, Marco. Keep your thoughts_ far _from Janet_ —but with opposable fingers, and a claw at the end of its stringy tail. It was hideous, if in an endearing way.

…Until it spoke.

“Be sure all of those panels are secured tight,” Jean ordered. It was hard to think of that thing _as_ Jean. That nightmarish bellow of a voice belonged in the deepest pits of Tartarus with all the rest of the monsters living under Marco’s bed, not scrabbling over the face of Jean’s handsome ship. “We will be moving much faster once this engine is back to full capacity.”

Marco hated to move toward Jean in that form. His face was something like a fruit bat minus all the fur and adorableness and plus all the fangs and…pasty nakedness. It was alarming, and the hairs on the back of Marco’s neck bristled. Especially when Jean—socially incapacitated Jean—came up from behind him and breathed hot and foggy right behind him.

“That will do,” Jean said, and his beast breath fogged the right side of Marco’s helmet.

Marco wiped it away with his sleeve, but there was a streak he missed. “Thank yo-ooo!” He squealed as something long and bony and strong seized him around the waist, and stared up at Jean’s naked bat face. “Wh-what are you doing? Put me down!”

Jean did not listen, but kept moving with Marco tucked beneath his arm like a football, despite the human’s squirming to be let free. He hobbled like an ape, or a werewolf with insanely long arms. “We must get moving once more. I do not like the feel of this system.” He made a leap across the ship, seamlessly bounding through at least twenty yards of empty space without a hitch, and landed atop the massive, rotating hull. Marco could see through the bubbled window beneath Jean’s feet, into the cargo bay with his laptop’s dark screen still facing the outside.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, and struggled some more. “We’re the only things out here!”

“That may not seem odd to the likes of you who has not even breached the edge of his home galaxy until now, but to me it is greatly disturbing.” Jean growled. “This is usually a high-traffic area at it’s slowest. We should have passed someone by now.”

Marco grunted as Jean’s pointy fingers dug deep into his ribs. “And you have to carry me like a sack of potatoes because…?”

Jean did not lose pace, but sped up as he sniffed once. “You are very slow, Marco.”

“Hey, fuck you!” Marco slapped the hand that very easily could have wrapped around his entire head. “I’m fast!”

“Not by my standards,” Jean shook his doggish head. “Now, please lower your voice. I do not have a good feeling about this.”

Marco still grumbled unintelligibly beneath his breath, but did as he was asked. They were nearing the bay door anyway, and it wasn’t as if there was anyone out here to see as he was degradingly manhandled.

…But, according to Jean at least, there very well might have been. Marco peered beneath his feet at the upside-down world behind them, and frowned. Nothing but stars and the back of the spaceship. He stumbled as Jean let him loose at the cargo-bay door and the artificial gravity kicked in.

Jean still shivered as he reset the air pressure, and his body rippled in a way that did not fit a human, even when he was back in his human skin. “We must leave. Now.” He bounced out of the airlock, and made a beeline for the flight deck.

Marco stared after him, wincing as he bent over and his tender ribs ached from Jean’s beastly hold on him. He barely hung up his helmet when something crackled against the glass window on the airlock door behind him, and Marco turned.

Short fingers of frost hissed at the corners of the window, coming from the south side of the ship where he and Jean had been not five minutes before. As Marco watched, the frost hissed some more and spread farther.

His eyes grew wide, and Marco took a leery step back. “Jean,” he called over his shoulder, eyes still trained on the window. “Get that engine fired up.”

Marco stumbled back as something rocked the ship portside, and the groan of metal grated at his ears. “Jean!” Noise rippled up to him, and Marco was nailed to the spot as something slapped against the outside of the airlock, freezing upon contact. He could only stare as what looked like a massive lobster claw rapped against the window. “Shit.”

Not a moment after the word had left his mouth, did that claw smash through the window, and take all the air with it. Marco screamed as he was lifted from his feet and sucked toward the opening, right into the jaws of whatever lay beyond the airlock. His hands scrabbled for register, fingers aching as they held all his weight and then some. “Jean!”

Something snapped right near his ankle, and Marco screamed again, not daring once to look behind him.

“Marco!” He opened his watery eyes to Jean on the other side of the glass, his human hands pressed flush against the walls, and his amber eyes pierced into Marco's.

Jean stared at Marco, then at whatever beast snapped away at his ankles, and back to Marco. His gazed was weighted, dogged and focused. He communicated with his eyes mostly, but he did say three words that Marco understood... no matter how heavy they were in Marco's stomach.

“Hold your breath.”

He took a single step back at Marco’s nod, and waited. For three seconds he waited, until, once again, that thing snapped at Marco’s ankle, and he slammed forward with inhuman force, snaking between the sliding walls of the airlock before it was entirely opened, and rammed right into the lobster beast attached to the port of his ship.

Marco was knocked from his hold with the force of the ship rocking, and flew into the vacuum. His eyes squeezed shut, but it did little to help him keep from screaming; the real power behind that was his index and thumb pinched over his nose, and his palm slapped across his mouth. He pin-wheeled, but still the rumbling echo of the collision of massive bodies caught up to him, and Marco caught glimpses of two giant beings attacking a third. The two were long and narrow, and white, but that’s all he could decipher through the fog of it all.

Something screamed into the stars, long and loud enough for Marco to hear, but even that wasn’t enough to keep him awake as, just as his body, Marco's consciousness was lost to the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is to celebrate the discovery of 7 new exoplanets! Go science!


	4. The Grapes and The Cammarians

He awoke to the clatter of metal on metal, and something prodding at his side. The bright of the lights overhead stabbed into the back of his eyeballs, ripping right into the most tender parts of his brain.

“Jean, lower the lights please. You’re killing me."

He did as Marco asked, but continued to poke and prod at Marco’s bruised side.

“Fascinating.” Jean said softly. “Simply fascinating.”

Marco hummed. “You act like you’ve never seen a human before.”

Jean chuckled. It was the first time Marco had ever heard such a noise from him, and he opened his eyes.

…That...wasn’t Jean. That was not Jean.

“That’s because I haven’t, young man.”

It was similar to the fish thing with the bioluminescence from Marco’s ship, only this one had hair, and two ovular appendages attached to its face that looked like hydrating glasses over its giant black eyes.

Marco moved to sit up, at the very least move away from the creature, but his arms were tied down with that same snotty stuff Jean had used on him when he was first captured. “Oh, my God! What is with you guys and this stuff?”

The thing chuckled again, and dipped one webbed, froggy finger into the substance binding Marco’s left wrist. “It is wonderful, no? Excellent for bondage!”

“You don’t have to bind me though,” Marco gasped, and ceased his struggling when his arms ached. “I’m not going to run; I just have to find my ship.” His head knocked against the metal slab he laid on, and he stared at the ceiling. “I need to find my ship.”

The thing tilted its gummy head at him, two transparent eyelids flicking over its massive eyes. “You were in no ship when I found you. You were swimming through  space, suffocated near to death!” Its eyes took on a sparkly, far away look, and it clasped its hands together in a star struck pose. “It was a truly magical sight. You were blue then.”

Marco caught his breath, and stared at the creature. “Where was I?”

Its head tilted bashfully, like the thing was tiptoeing across the subject. One of its fingers traced circles just inches from Marco’s side. “The same place that you are now, of course.” Its eyes sparkled again, but Marco couldn’t tell whether it was looking at him or not. “Pray tell, are you one of those chameleon-like fellows I’ve heard so much about?”

Marco stared at it for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. “No.”

The thing clicked its tongue, but resumed prodding at his side with what looked like a metal stick with a tiny sphere at the end. It took Marco some time to realize it was zapping him ever so gently.

“What is that?” he asked, raising his neck just enough to leer at the thing.

The fish thing shook its head. “Whatever conundrum you got tangled up in before we found you, it did a fair amount of damage to your structural foundation.” It hunched over him, focused on his ribs. “I took the liberty of taking some of that vermillion fluid you coughed up earlier for sampling.” It nodded to a small vile of what could only be Marco’s blood on the shelf behind it, then blinked, as if coming to another conclusion. “However,” it hesitated as if what it was about to say greatly disappointed it. “I am willing to return it if you cannot survive without it.”

Marco stared at the blood, at the strange symbols scrawled across the vile that couldn’t have been more than an ounce. “For saving me, you can keep it.”

The thing hopped, and made a happy chirping sound deep in its throat. “You are rather calm compared to most others I have studied. Tell me, where are you from? Certainly you cannot be one of those ruffians from the Cetripetal system.”

“If we are where you say we are, I’m not even from this solar system.” Marco shook his head. “I’m galaxies from home.” A rueful smile tickled his lips, but never really broke the surface. He glanced back to the fish thing zapping at his ribs. “And you aren’t the first thing to hold me captive out here. I’m kind of used to it now.”

A gentle smile curled around the thing’s downward-curved mouth. It was an almost sad expression. “You miss your home still. I can see it in your gaze.”

“Of course I do,” Marco shrugged. “And I need to find my ship so I can get there.”

“We will help you,” the thing offered. “What am I if not a humble servant to those who aid in my discoveries across the universe?”

Its tone made Marco’s mouth twitch. “Thank you.”

His eyebrows crinkled then, and he blinked back at the blue and green creature. “How do you know my language, if I may ask?”

The fish thing chuckled, and it was soggy sound, as if its vocal chords were submerged in water. “I have gathered much knowledge throughout my years, most definitely in language, but I have never heard yours before.” It touched its sticky finger to the side of Marco’s head, right by his temple. There was something there that Marco had not noticed before. “I stuck this to your head. It’s a translator of sorts. I wear one, too.” It gestured to a blinking green square, smaller than a microchip, at the nape of its neck. “You speak your language, but I only hear mine and vice versa.”

Marco blinked, his skin itching where the chip was stuck. “Wow.”

It smiled, showing off a row of teeth that that wasn’t really teeth at all. More like one giant tooth growing from its upper and lower jaw that ridged and peaked into the shape of teeth. It was as frightening as it was fascinating. “I thought so, too.” The thing clapped its amphibian hands together then. “Now,” it hummed. “Where was your ship when you last saw it?”

Marco’s face fell. “Um, well. I don’t really know.” He shook his head when the thing gave him a startled look. “It’s not really my ship, it’s a…friend’s. He was helping me get back home, actually.”

“Do you at least know the ship’s name?” The fish looked appalled.

Marco flinched. “The Kirchstein? He wouldn’t let me do much so that’s all I really have to go off of—”

The creature waved a hand before its face to stop him. “Wait. Where is your friend? Why is he not looking for you?”

Marco almost answered, but Jean’s own words echoed in his head. _Take from it what you will, I am indifferent toward your feelings for me_. He rested his head back on the slab, eyebrows crinkled. I have no use for you or your memories.

“We were…attacked,” Marco muttered, his spirit dampened. “He was defending me when I was shot from the airlock and lost. He probably didn’t see me.”

But Jean had seen him. He’d told Marco to hold his breath and then been the one to shoot him out into space. Jean had seen him.

The fish seemed to catch on to his mood. “Well…” it hesitated with its squishy voice. “Your shirt was torn when we found you.” It touched some point on Marco’s snot handcuffs and they congealed into rubber balls much like Jean’s had, and the fish put the balls into a pocket attached to its hip. “I have a spare suit going horribly unused if you would like it, and I can fashion a helmet compatible with your oxygenic needs lickity-split.” It grinned, and a watery purr bubbled up from its throat. “Come. You must walk.”

Marco didn’t flinch as the creature held a hand out for him to take, the other positioned like it wanted to help him sit up, but he did pause before touching its sticky skin. It reminded him of the Smelly Putty he’d played with as a kid, malleable and rubbery beneath his palm.

“I am called Hanji.” The creature introduced. Up close, Marco could see that the stuff on its head was not in fact hair, but some kind of complex webbing that looked like hair. Whatever it was, Hanji kept it pushed back from its face with pins and bands in a mock attempt at a ponytail. “What are you called?”

“Marco,” he shook its hand and slid from the metal slab on wobbly knees. “Thank you for rescuing me, Hanji.”

It hummed and led the way to a door that slid upward to the ceiling with a mechanical hiss. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to discover a new species, now, could I? I was simply curious.”

“Well, your curiosity saved me.” Marco had to limp where his ribs still throbbed on the left side, and used his hand on the wall to keep him upright. “So thank you.”

It flashed that toothy grin. “You are my new favorite specimen. None have ever thanked me before.”

“That’s because you take them without asking, nitwit.”

Marco and Hanji turned in unison at the second voice. Or voices.

“There you are, Leviathan!” Hanji beamed. “Just in time to meet Marco!”

The cat creature, similar to the one Jean liked to be when he was fixing the circuit, crossed all of his six arms, and appraised Marco and Hanji. He was a different color than Jean, blue instead of purple, but the yellow rings along his arms and tail were the same.

“Hello,” Marco stammered.

Leviathan narrowed his yellow eyes at him.

“Now, then,” Hanji steered Marco away by the shoulders. “Let’s get that suit, and see about finding your friend!”

***

Jean stumbled into the airlock with one hand over his bleeding side. The cut was not deep, but stabbed far enough into his muscles to make him flinch with each bend or shudder of his torso. Those two white Cammarians did a real job on him and the ship, but his job was better. His lungs still ached with each breath as he glared out the port window into the stars just outside, and Jean did not even blink as a ghostly claw, once attached to one of the mangled carcasses outside, bounced off the side of the ship with sluggish movements.

Jean stared at it for a moment, stared at the opalescent blood that still oozed out into open space in fat droplets, before he turned and limped back to the cargo-bay to get the ship moving again. He had to get out of here before more of those animals showed up and really gave him a hard time.

The Kirchstein was silent as she usually was as Jean made progress down the hall to the cargo-bay. He conjured enough strength to stand straight, to walk with a little more of his usual prowess before something caught his foot and he stumbled with a loud grunt, and a clatter behind him. He growled as he pushed up on his fists, and glared at whatever held him by the feet.

A blue blanket with a strange creature stitched on one side was wrapped around his left ankle. Jean did not recognize it at first, but everything floated back into place when saw the flat metal disk that wasn’t a flat metal disk.

It was Marco’s computer, and it was the strangest computer Jean had ever seen. The blanket was Marco’s too. The thing on the blanket, an animal it was (though Jean couldn’t remember its name) was the mascot for a team for a sport Marco liked.

Jean sat up and tugged the blanket away from his feet, caressing the smooth fabric between his fingers in thought. His eyes turned back to the computer, still open, still paused on another title. Jean tapped the space bar, and the system started up again.

For what very well could have been a long time, Jean watched the screen, watched as Christine Daae’s fantasy turned into a nightmare and she was stalked by a disfigured man in a white mask. Jean may have liked this one more than the first Marco had shown him, but it was hard to tell.

He came to just as the smooth strains of “Music of the Night” began, and turned to stare out the bubbled window in the direction Marco had disappeared, his fingers still working slowly at the soft blanket.

He stared for a very long time.

***

Hanji’s old suit reminded Marco of something vomited right from the nerdiest depths of a Tron videogame.

That isn’t to say how _cool_ it was.

It hugged his body in places Marco was not used to being hugged, and made him feel fast. Sleek, black, and fast.

The helmet was by far his favorite part, hugging his face in all the right places, cool enough that he couldn’t even feel his own breath, and a tinted glass shield that obscured the upper half of his face like those gradient sunglasses his cousin always wore.

Hanji’s black pools of eyes sparkled as it stared at Marco in awe. “You look like a Ranger!”

Marco looked up from the watery mirror, testing the squeak in the warm gloves attached to the suit. “Pardon?”

“A Ranger!” Hanji said again, and dove into the pool of water before the mirror. The room they stood in, Hanji’s personal living quarters, was an aquatic fantasy with tide pools every few feet leading into another, underwater level that only Hanji itself could reach. The pale blue light came from somewhere in the water, and the reflection rippled and curled on the dark ceiling above Marco’s head.

Hanji popped up from the water again, splashing water, in a different tide pool than it had dove into, and slapped a heavy-looking book on floor before it. “Rangers are very much like the police officers on Earth, though they are much kinder. They watch out for the health of Andromeda, and work for the Prevention of Unnecessary Black Holes.”

“There are _necessary_ black holes?” Marco wondered as he leaned with his hands on his knees to inspect the page Hanji had opened up to. There was a suit on the page, and lines with text pointed to different bits of the uniform, indicating what was what. It was similar to Marco’s suit, but he could spot the differences immediately. The Ranger uniform was bulkier, had more padding, and wasn’t as run-of-the-mill space-age like Marco’s. It looked heavy, but efficient.

If Marco was honest, the uniform looked more like the one Jean always wore.

“Hanji?” he asked. “You mentioned chameleon people earlier. Are any of them with the Rangers?”

That could explain why Jean had picked up Marco in the first place. If he was wandering in the wrong jurisdiction or something, Jean may have felt it his duty to stop someone without a permit or whatever it was they used out here.

“Chameleomorphs?” Hanji’s forehead crinkled in surprise before it shook its head. “No, I don’t think so. Not for a long time, at least.” It remained in the water, its webbed feet wading through the smooth waves and its arms folded beneath its chin. “The last I ever heard of a Chameleomorph working as a Ranger was nearly a decade ago.”

Marco’s eyebrows crinkled and he lowered himself so he sat with his legs folded before Hanji. “What happened?”

Hanji shrugged. “It’s hard to say; I was not there, and people lie.” It ran one hand over its face to lubricate its skin, and the marbled pattern on its face shone with renewed luster. “But the most wide-spread story was that the few they had were at a discourse with other species, and it was argued that they could not be trusted for having so many faces belong to one body.” Hanji shook its head. “They have always been a flighty species, you see. Chameleomorphs are not known for owning up to their faults. Those few were exiled from the Garrison just to be certain.”

Marco frowned, and glanced back at the picture of the Ranger suit. The image left a bad taste in his mouth now. “That’s not very fair.”

Hanji shrugged again, and pushed out of the water so it sat to the side of Marco, water rolling off its smooth back in ripples. “They were compensated if that eases your trouble. Each member they released received a ship of their own.”

That would explain how Jean has such a large ship all to himself. “And what of the Garrison?”

Hanji’s feet kicked smoothly through the water, and it wiggled its gummy toes before its legs splashed back in, sending myriad drops of water onto Marco’s suit. “They are more dogged in who they will allow into their troops.” Marco and Hanji watched as the drops slid away, and the suit was dry once again. “But it is a diminishing cause, so it does not matter as much as you may think. The Rangers are being replaced.”

“By who?”

Hanji’s head tilted. “The younger generations. The Prevention of Unnecessary Black Holes is fortunately becoming something all people are concerned for.”

Marco grinned as he stared out over the water, imagining the logo for that one: Only _you_ can prevent Unnecessary Black Holes.

Hanji stared at him with its inky black eyes before glancing over its shoulder at the door. “May I show you something?” it asked.

Marco looked at it, then nodded. “Sure.”

Hanji’s face softened into a mild grin and held out a webbed hand for Marco. It reached up and pressed a button on the side of his helmet with one finger, and the gradient shield hissed down and over Marco’s face before Hanji slid into the water, taking Marco with it.

His first instinct was to hold his breath, but the water did not touch him. The grotto beneath Hanji’s room was more of a living space than the one above. Everything was placed upside down, something that threw Marco off, but he adjusted with Hanji’s help.

The coral-like shelves were cast in the same light blue as everything else, and Marco couldn’t help grinning at the ovular, unmade bed carved into the corner of the room.

“This is my real home,” Hanji said through the water, its face illuminated by the small trail of lights inside Marco’s helmet. It swam to the opposite end of the room, behind the bed, and waved Marco after it. It had been so long since Marco swam in real water that he wasn’t sure how to move at first, but the suit was amenable and easy to move in. “And these,” Hanji waved a hand over a large mass of what looked a lot like glowing jelly beans, “are my babies.”

Marco gasped, a smile tickling his lips at the faint pulsation of light coming from the mass. “Hanji!” he smiled, keeping his voice hushed. “They’re beautiful!”

Hanji beamed to itself, and brushed a knuckle over the rubbery eggs. They purred and shivered under its touch. “Any day now,” it cooed.

Marco sat entranced by the tiny life, and gasped as one egg came loose and sluggishly floated (sank?) toward the ceiling. “I’ve got it,” he hummed, and pushed toward it in one smooth puff of mud. He caught the glowy egg in gentle hands, much like he would if it were a bird, and stared for a moment. The faintest of hums could be felt thrumming into his palms.

“There they go,” Hanji crooned with a soft smile.

And the whole cavern was alight. Hundreds of sea grapes dislodged from their nestling and floundered about, casting soft shadows across the rocky walls and floor.

Marco held his safe in his palms, but let it go to let it float about with its siblings.

The grapes did not move with conscious effort, they had no set path that Marco could see, but everything about them screamed the word _alive_. They were alive and they were beautiful.

Hanji swirled about between them, caressing some, and kissing others, but loving all. “This one will be called _Kaneme Thrapus_ after the first species I ever tested,” it said, brushing one grape so it swirled in a tiny swell. “And this one shall be _Carpulus_ after my favorite bone.” It brushed another. It named off at least a dozen names, twisting and swiveling about to find each egg. It seemed to have all of them memorized. “And this one,” Hanji caught another grape in a swell caused by it hand. This one was no different than the others. It cradled the thing in its palm before swimming over to Marco, and offering it to him. “I wish to call _Marcus Sapiens_ after the first human I ever met.”

It let the grape float into Marco’s hands, its black eyes wide and wondrous.

He stared down at it, at the rubbery sack surrounding the tiny life not quite ready for this world, but almost. He could see from this close that this creature, whatever the real name for it was, would be pink, the gentlest pink Marco had ever seen, with a single green stripe trailing the length of its little back. “ _Marcus Sapiens_ ,” Marco grinned. “That’s a bit of a mouthful.”

Hanji smiled. “Yes.”

“Would you mind if I gave it a little nickname of my own?”

The smile deepened, and Hanji gestured him forward.

Marco stared down at little _Marcus Sapiens_ with all the love in the world, and blinked back a wall of tears before it could flood his vision. His nose stung, and histhroat ached to cry, but he held together. Here he was with someone he'd only just met, and already they wanted to name their own child after him.

“Tony,” Marco said, smiling back at Hanji. “Call it Tony for me.”

***

Jean sat at the control board, his human hands tight on the steering. He stared forward at the carpet of stars as he passed, blasting through the Heat Nebula in the direction he came, onward toward Chi Per. The musical sounds from Marco’s laptop blasted over the intercom of the ship, filling it with a life that was not normally there.

A faint smile toyed at Jean’s thin lips.

“Faces! Take a turn, take a rid--on the merry-go-roun--of an inhuman race.” The voices sang, clear and vibrant and amazing. “Eye of gold. Thigh of blue. True is false. Who is who?”

The song made Jean think of himself, his shape-shifting self, in a light he had not ever seen. A good light. One that made him mysterious rather than sly and shifty.  
Because his whole life was a masquerade of swirling colors and shifting faces, wasn’t it? Never was he his own identity because it didn’t exist. Jean was a mass of identities, always changing, never permanent.

… But he had a name. Two now, actually. And one of those names belonged to Marco.

Jean set out his course for Chi Per, following the direction he had seen Marco—the first person to give him a real name in decades—disappear.


	5. The Sparrow and The Fox

“We have found your friend.”

Marco still swayed his legs in the tide pool when Leviathan came in. He noticed with a grin that the feline creature remained a steady distance from the water, and his fluffy blue tail swished about in agitation.

“His ship is orbiting an Aulean moon as we speak.”

Marco sat up straight, and pushed to his feet. “Are you sure?”

A growl of annoyance built strong in Leviathan’s chest, and one ear twitched. “Yes, I’m sure,” he snarled, thick fur bristling.

“What are his artillery statistics?” Hanji asked, surfacing from the tide pool with a pop of water and a splash at Marco’s legs. “And how far from here?”

Leviathan’s upper lip twitched, and his cat eyes narrowed once at Marco before flitting to Hanji’s soaked body. “He has cannons on every side and cosmic barriers protecting each opening.”

Hanji’s eyes flashed, and it looked up at Marco as he helped it to its feet. “Your friend is not very trusting, eh?”

Marco could only shrug.

Hanji huffed a laugh, then turned to Leviathan. “The distance?”

“Nine point three-five miles.”

Hanji clapped its soggy hands together, and an array of water drops speckled the side of Marco’s helmet before rolling off. “Well that isn’t very far away at all, now, is it? We can use one of the Sparrows!” It turned to Marco. “Are you familiar with Sparrows?”

Marco blinked at it. “Unless you’re referring to birds, I’m gonna have to say no.”

“Ah, no worries! Sparrows are excellent navigation devices and very easy to figure out!” It pushed Marco out of the room, a trail of water following it that made Leviathan take a healthy step back. It continued to push him until they made it to a narrow airlock with a window. “You see that blinky dot right there?” Hanji pressed a dripping finger to the glass and left a mark that made Leviathan snarl deep in his chest. “That’s your friend right there!”

Marco did see what it was talking about. In the distance, among all the stars and the white-blue moon Leviathan had mentioned, was a very distinct, steely grey mass that differed from the surrounding black of space. If he focused hard enough, he could see it moving just barely.

“Now comes the fun part!” Hanji squealed, and pressed a button on a latch Marco had not noticed before. A door slid open, just to the side of the airlock, and Hanji grabbed what looked very much like a jetpack and set it at Marco’s feet. It tapped the thing’s shiny black surface, and the jetpack that was not a jetpack floated up to hover near Marco’s waist. “This is a Sparrow,” Hanji introduced with a wicked grin. “A fantastic invention, really. Great for traveling short distances!” It patted the Sparrow and the device dipped once before returning to its place before Marco. “You see, you put your grabbers—”

“Hands,” Leviathan drawled.

“Oh, yes, hands. Thank you, Levi.” Hanji turned back to Marco. “You put your hands in this bit right here,” It took Marco by one wrist and placed his hand inside the hollowed-out crevice floating parallel to his abdomen, “and grab onto these rods so you don’t lose yourself.”

“Lose myself?”

“Now, this is the important part, so listen well, Marco.” Hanji ignored his question, or didn’t hear it. It tapped the face of Marco’s helmet and a complex screen popped up before his eyes. “Levi has been so kind as to enter your coordinates already! You just follow the path on your screen and it will lead you right to your friend’s door. The path outline will turn red when you get close. When it does that, be sure to press this button,”—Hanji tapped a button at the tip of the left rod—“and your friend’s airlock will open for you.” It paused a moment. “What is your friend’s name, if I may ask?”

“Uh,” Marco turned his head, but the screen followed, the path on the screen curving to adapt to its new coordinates. “Uh, Jean. But how am I supposed to steer this thing?”

“No time to speak, Jean is moving fast!” Hanji pushed Marco by the elbows so his hands were tight on the rods inside the Sparrow. “Just remember not to let go and the Sparrow will do everything else!”

“What?”

But the airlock doors flew open and Marco was sucked outside. Not a second after Zero-G had him did the Sparrow blast to life and he was barreling far and away from Hanji and Leviathan’s cargo freight, and Marco was sent screaming into a void of darkness.

It reminded him of countless times on Earth when he’d attempted wakeboarding and fell deep into the depths of the lake near his home, drug behind Mikasa’s parents’ boat by the hands. Only this time, instead of a lake and life vest, Marco had only the void of space and an advanced spacesuit to keep him safe. And only one of those could really be considered safe.

He gripped so tight to the rods his fingers ached, but he never once loosened his grip, even as the Kirchstein grew steadily closer. The curved yellow line glowing at the center of his mask shortened, and a low beeping alerted his frazzled mind when the yellow shifted to a blinking red.

Marco’s thumb crammed into the button on the left rod so hard the joint popped, and he screamed as the airlock doors slid open, and he was sucked inside. He rocked and tumbled, and lost his grip on the Sparrow. He didn’t try to stop, but let his body absorb as he rolled over and over until finally coming to a stop at the second pair of doors leading to the inside of the Kirchstein.

His head swam, vision swirling, and he was almost sick. But then his stomach settled, and he found his arms. The air was fruity like he remembered when he pressed the button on the side of his helmet, and Marco gasped it all in, eyes falling closed as he regained his sense of balance and the world around him settled back into its rightful place.

“Marco?” He was startled by the grainy voice through the intercom, and his head craned backward to look at Jean--possibly more startled than he was--upside down.

“Jean!” Marco rocked to his feet, swaying only a little, using the wall to support himself. “Hey, Jean!” His hand pressed into the door key, and he all but fell into Jean’s arms. “You’re still a human!”

Jean’s eyebrows crinkled as he let Marco down. “I saw you disappear,” he said, matter-of-fact. His eyes skated Marco’s outfit. “And you were not wearing this.”

His face was closer to Marco’s than it had ever been, and Marco could see the dark flecks of copper in Jean’s irises. They reflected short beams of light, and they were beautiful.

“Luckily, I ran into some good ol’ space buccaneers,” Marco breathed. His arm wrapped around Jean’s neck and pulled him even closer, so that Marco’s face buried in his shoulder. “You know, I actually missed you. I mean, I think I missed my stuff more, but I missed you a little bit, too, y’know? Like, talking to you and—” he froze, his arm loosening as he got an earful of what still blasted over the Kirchstein’s intercom. “—are you listening to The Phantom of The Opera?”

Jean still stared at him, his confused expression reminding Marco that he was not, in fact, human, and quite unfamiliar with the universally accepted idea that listening to a near stranger’s music was usually something to be embarrassed about when caught. “I enjoy the turn of phrase used throughout, though I have no idea the synopsis of the plot.” He still stared at Marco in amazement. “How did you get here—?” he shook his head in unbelief, and raised his head to the airlock as if it would spit out more surprise guests. “And where did you acquire a Sparrow?”

A wild grin split Marco’s face in two, and he could only shrug sheepishly. “Space buccaneers?”

Jean’s eyes were wide as saucers when he glanced down at him in his lap again. He shook his head. “Humans are far more resilient than I first came to believe.”

Marco chuckled, and without thinking, his mind still firing at a million lightyears a second, his good conscience somewhere floating in space, slapped either hand on the sides of Jean’s face and pulled him down toward his lips.

With a surprised grunt, Jean’s mouth pressed to Marco’s in something Jean could not remember the meaning of. It was not a casual thing, at least not in the world Marco grew up in, but he couldn’t recall just what it was.

And it was over before Jean could piece it together. With a startled hum, Marco pushed him away again, his hands still holding firm to Jean’s face, and Jean watched in amazement as the loveliest of vermilions permeated Marco’s skin.

“I’m sorry,” Marco blurted in an awkward voice, and his lips curled over his teeth when he shook his head. “I don’t know why I just did that.”

Jean shrugged again, still unaware of why that pretty vermilion was there, but liking it no less. “Your guess is as good as mine, my friend,” he grinned cloyingly. “I’m afraid most of your synaptic memories have faded from my recollection by now.”

The vermilion deepened, and Marco finally sat up, his eyes shifting with discomfort. “Well, good. Jesus.” He breathed and threw his new helmet away from him. “It’s good to be somewhere familiar, you know?”

Jean still stared at the Sparrow. It died the moment Marco passed through the airlock, the tiny, powerful engine no longer thrumming, the screen of Marco’s helmet gone dark once more. “You did all that to get back to the Kirchstein? What _are_ humans?”

Marco shrugged, standing on wobbly knees. He was almost certain he’d left his stomach some three miles away when he’d blasted up to the ship, and the space it left was hollow and wide. “Strange creatures from a faraway land,” Marco grinned, “that grow attached to others far too quickly, and shoot glass rhinos when those they grow attached to are in danger.”

Jean was baffled; those words made him want to do something with Marco. He wanted to express the same emotion—whatever it was—that Marco expressed, but not with words. He felt he should be doing something physical, but he didn’t know what.

“Humans are odd,” was all Jean could say.

Marco laughed. It was a high, nervous sound. “Yes we are.”

“Are you harmed in any way?” Jean scrambled to his feet, making a clean sweep of Marco from top to bottom with his eyes. “Are your cells shrinking again?”

Marco stood there in the hallway before the airlock, and a tiny smile tickled at the corner of his mouth. “You remembered that, eh?”

Jean nodded once, distracted, but realized what Marco meant. He straightened. “That was my own memory, not just yours. Of course I remembered that.”

Something sparkled somewhere deep in Marco’s chest, and the smile grew before he could turn away. Jean didn’t remember Marco as Marco showed him through his memories, but he was gaining perspective with his own.

“I remember a lot from you, actually.”

Marco shook his head and honest to god giggled. Jean may not have thought so, but by human standards, Jean was flirting. Hard.

“How do you do that?” Marco started when Jean took a long stride at him, the airlock closing behind him.

“Do what?” Marco’s ears burned at how close Jean inspected him.

“That.” Jean pointed to his cheeks, to the soft pink blossoming beneath the heavy dusting of freckles. “Is this another sign of sickness? Have you too much sun?” His cold fingertips brushed Marco’s skin curiously, and his hand dropped when Marco flinched away.

“Uh, no, but this can happen if I get too much sun.” Marco gulped as his cheeks burned brighter and Jean’s eyes grew wider. “I’m blushing. I’m embarrassed, Jean.”

Jean scowled. It wasn’t malign, just frustration and confusion. “Why are you embarrassed?” he deadpanned, eyes still fixed on Marco’s searing cheeks.

Marco’s mouth puckered, and he worked around words that didn’t come as easily as he wanted them to. “B-because…” his voice trailed into nothing more than a fragile whisper, and Marco’s fingers traced up to his lips, still tingling from the feeling of Jean’s mouth against his. “Because I kissed you, Jean.” Marco’s thumb trembled as it traced the line of his bottom lip. “I kissed you.”

Jean scowled, puzzled for a long while. “Is kissing… bad?” His amber eyes locked with Marco’s.

Marco shook his head, making a face. “Not really.”

The scowl deepened, a deep line creasing the space between Jean’s pointed eyebrows. “Did you mean to kiss me?”

Marco froze, his knees locking, before his eyes fell to the floor. “I don’t… know.”

The silence was long and heavy, Marco not sure if Jean even knew what was going on, and Jean trying to understand what was going on. Marco was usually rather calm before him, and this kissing thing did not seem to be good. An accident that was not meant to ever happen.

“Then,” Jean’s voice was uncomfortable if Marco ever heard it, “do not worry about it. I will let it be.”

Marco glanced up at him, and Jean’s face said he meant it. “Okay.”

Everything did not feel okay, but for the time being, either one could ignore it. They could talk about it later, if there ever was a later, and maybe it wouldn’t be so awkward the second time around.

“Come,” Jean said abruptly. “I must find the coordinates of your planet, and you must fix your computer. It has stopped working.”

* * *

“What kind of computer must sleep after such a short time of use?” Jean criticized from his place at the control panel as he punched his fingers over an array of knobs and buttons and screens with unfamiliar symbols scrawled over them. “What if you are in danger? That does not seem practical, Marco.”

Marco pressed the tiny button on the side of his laptop. Six of the eight miniscule lights on the left side blinked, and he let it be. “Your idea of computers is different from most humans’ idea of computers. These ones are more for entertainment than anything.” Marco wandered the cargo bay, busying himself with studying the complex architecture of the Kirchstein’s interior. The inside walls were all the same light grey, almost pearly, and there seemed to be nothing out of place. Even Marco’s clumsy work on the control panel stretching across the back of the room seemed to fit, if in an odd way. “And humans live kinda boring lives in comparison to the likes of you,” he rolled his eyes in the direction of Jean’s back, “most don’t rely on computers the same way you do.”

Jean snorted without facing Marco. “How blasé.” He punched more buttons, and a transparent screen hovered before the windshield of the Kirchstein. “What is the current orbital position of your planet?”

Marco opened his mouth to answer, but fell short. He glanced out the bubbled window, just as they passed a small, orange sun lightyears away. “I don’t know… it was July when I left, the farthest Earth gets to the sun, but…” Marco swallowed, remembering how odd time seemed to work when there were no days or sols or suns to count. “How long have we been out here?”

Jean paused, and swiveled around in his captain’s chair. He gave Marco an odd look. “I don’t know.” He stared for a long moment, and Marco could almost see the cogs turning in Jean’s head as he thought.

Then Jean grinned, slow and sure. “But I believe I know how you can find out.”

He led Marco through the Kirchstein to the hangar where Marco’s ship still lay at rest, his pace swift and strong and a little too hard for Marco to keep up with without jogging. “The hydrogen in the engine would be too dangerous to contain in here, but I noticed a radio inside,” Jean explained, somehow not breaking a sweat despite his urgent pace. “If I can disconnect the wires and the motherboard, do you think you would be able to boot them to my ship?”

Marco nodded, thinking. “Yes. But the motherboard with the right satellite readings is imbedded in the flight deck of the orbiter. We’d have to tear the control panel apart to get to the right part. Unless,”—Marco glanced around at the suddenly empty-save-for-him-and-his-ship room— “Jean? Jean?”

“Do you think this would be small enough to infiltrate the orbiter without extensive damage—? Do not swat me!”

Marco’s hand froze before he could bat the thing away, and he took a single, stumbled step back as it scowled down at him. “S-sorry. Didn’t recognize you.”

Well, he did recognize some of what Jean was, but the fact that he resembled a mosquito mixed with a fairy didn’t make it any good in Jean’s case.

Jean’s yellow wings flittered, emitting the same annoying hum as any mosquito would, and Marco’s eye twitched.

“As I was saying,” Jean said, and zig-zagged across Marco’s vision. “Do you think this form is small enough to hack the system?” He fluttered again, pirouetting midair.

“Uh…” Marco made a face and shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe?”

Jean had no eyebrows in this form, but had he any, they would have covered Jean’s eyes as he glared at Marco. “Humans are useless,” he scowled, and zipped past.

Marco laughed, and followed inside. “Well, this useless human saved your life so…”

Jean flittered to a stop, hovering in the air before Marco, and turned with an impish grin. “Mistakes happen, don’t they?”

Marco stopped, awestruck. “Did you just... was that a joke?”

Jean’s grin widened.

Marco shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Amazing. Truly amazing.”

Navigating the prone spaceship was a feat in and of itself, but doing so when your only companion was no bigger than your palm made it even worse. On more than one occasion Marco set his hand against the wall as he passed, if only to preserve his balance, only to be interrupted by furious chattering about “watching for the little guy” and “your palms are damp and it’s gross.”

“If you have such a problem with me walking—blindly walking in the dark, mind you,” Marco groused, “why don’t you just fly ahead of me?”

Jean flittered around like a house fly and came to a perch on Marco’s shoulder, his papery wings folding neatly against his bare back. “This may come surprising, but flying isn’t easy, especially in a form so minute.” Jean shook his tiny head and smirked. “Why don’t you run everywhere?”

Marco nodded and ducked beneath a ledge before the cargo bay. “Point taken.”

They made it to the flight deck. Marco’s picture of Janet and Mikasa was still there, though there was the thinnest film of dust covering the glossy surface. He swiped his thumb over each of their faces, a lump rising in his throat.

“Those are…your family, no?” Jean’s voice was a mere hum in his ear.

Marco could only nod. “Yeah.”

Jean hummed again, but didn’t speak of his cousin or dog any more. “Step back, please.” He hovered from Marco’s shoulder, his body rippling in a way Marco was familiar with by now.

He grew quickly, towering over Marco in a matter of seconds.

Marco stared, and could scarcely contain his laughter. “That’s a lovely color, Jean.”

He still had hair, still looked mostly human, only Jean’s skin was the brightest pink Marco had ever seen.

Jean didn’t catch that it was a joke, either. “Thank you.”

Marco snorted to himself, shaking his head just as Jean blinked with all-black eyes at the floor. His eyes scanned, seeing something Marco couldn’t, before he crouched down and scratched the floor with his claw. “Drill here. About…” he pressed a baseball mitt-sized palm over the scratch marks, his dark eyes closing, “four inches down. I can reach the motherboard through there.”

He scooted to the side and hovered while Marco set the step drill. “Just a few degrees to the left—no, not that far. There.” Marco’s skin prickled at the proximity, his hands trembling in the slightest when one of Jean’s massive hands fell on the whole drill and pushed it in the right direction. _Oh, god,_ Marco thought. _Not now._

“That should do well,” Jean hummed, and Marco watched as he morphed back into the fairy thing again. It was a strange motion, the shape-shifting, and Marco felt slightly sick seeing it firsthand.

Jean dove head-first into the hole, his tiny shoulders just barely clear of the sides. Marco heard faint scuffling, another language as Jean spoke to himself. Wires were sliced, pulled apart, before Jean popped up again, two wires and what looked a bit like a spark-plug caught in his hands. “Hold these, please,” Jean grunted, and Marco tried to keep steady hands as he grabbed them, and Jean squeezed down again.

It was a few minutes before Marco heard anything, but then Jean swore, and the speakers popped. “That one,” Marco piped up, sitting forward to peek into the hole. “That’s the radio.”

Jean heaved again, a wing almost getting caught on the sharp edge of the hole, and he tugged out a long, fat wire for Marco. “I shall be back shortly,” Jean huffed, and zipped out of the ship.

Marco sat there, wires in hand, feeling a little foolish, but also giddy. He could see Janet and Mikasa in the picture above the control panel. They were smiling, and he could only imagine how much more they would when they found out he was alive and coming home after all. He thought of Armin and Annie, of Dmitri Marco and how great it was going to feel to hold him for the first time. He’d probably be big, almost a year old before Marco could see him, but it’d be so worth it. 

This was all worth it.

A familiar hiss brought Marco back to the present, and he leapt, almost losing hold of the wires when he saw the enormous black tentacle writhing behind him.

“Jesus Christ, Jean!” Marco squeaked, glaring up at him. “Don’t do that!”

He was that horrible bug thing again, his arms and tentacles full of different boxes and tools. He didn’t have a flexible mouth in this form, but Marco hadn’t a doubt in the universe that he’d be grinning ear to ear if he did.

Jean settled down beside him, cackling. “Revenge is sweet, no?” One of the tentacles snagged the wires right from Marco’s hands and Jean folded himself before him. Watching Jean work in that form was something else. Each tentacle seemed to have a mind of its own, but was swift to call to attention when Jean needed it. He was finished connecting the radio to the Kirchstein’s power in less than six minutes.

And the radio hummed slightly, spitting occasionally. Marco almost couldn’t believe it.

He stood, head rushing, and stared up at the radio. It was working, but had it connected? Were the coordinates compromised when Jean crashed into the ship?

He’d been waiting for this moment for so long, yet he couldn’t bring himself to touch the speaker.

Those vinyl-like tentacles hissed again. “What’s wrong?”

Marco looked over his shoulder at Jean. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he admitted.

The pincers at Jean’s mouth rolled and clicked. He was slow to rise, and when he straightened, his head bowed so he didn’t touch the sloped ceiling. He towered a good two feet over Marco.

“You miss them, don’t you?” Jean wondered.

“Of course.”

He stepped closer, one spindly hand snatching onto Marco’s wrist, guiding it to the speaker button. “Then prove it. Not only can I not help you if you don’t,” Jean stepped to the side so he loomed behind Marco, so it was just him and the radio, “but they will be left grief-stricken and lonely believing you have been lost to space.”

Marco hedged, his hands trembling just looking at the radio. What will he say? “Technically, I was.”

“Permanently lost.”

Marco still stared. What if there’s no connection? What if they’ve forgotten all about him? What if the last he saw of Janet would be only a three-year old picture?

What if, what if, what if?

He winced when something touched his wrist again, something warm and smooth. It was Jean again, his human version, and his hand guided Marco’s to the intercom button, so slow and bated Marco could feel the slight groan in his muscles.

“Just say something,” Jean instructed.

Marco’s middle finger pressed the button, and static fizzled through the room. The sound of it squeezed his heart, shoved it to his throat, and he chickened out. The static cut off the instant he let go.

The tremble moved down to his knees, and he almost fell backward, but Jean was still there behind him, cool and strong.

“Try again,” Jean said.

Marco did. He broke his middle finger to the black square button, clicked it down. He still had to take a breath before he could speak.

“…This is Marco Bodt calling from Maria. Do you copy?”

* * *

Admin Alert had been doing this for years. For as long as he could remember, he wanted to work for NASA, to be one of the guys who watched the stars and was paid to do it. He wanted to be one of the Firsts. The first to see a planet, the first to see a shooting star, the first to make contact with aliens (if they existed, that is.)

And, in a sick way, he got what he wanted. He was officially one of the first.

He was the first to lose a friend to space. 

There had been good men and women lost in translation, but that had always been the fault of someone on the ground. A leak was missed, a bolt wasn't screwed tight enough. Small things. But he was the first to lose someone, a brother, really, to something that was entirely out of his control. It wasn't the fault of NASA, or anyone involved (that he knew, at least,) but some enormous, external force floating through space. It took Marco, swallowed him whole, and that awful static still rang in his ears. It made him slack in his work, in his life.

He'd been a slob for his whole like, and that wasn't in error to his personal hygiene. He just got caught up in the moment, and his mind tended to stay on one thing, and one thing only. He ate while he worked, hence the wrappers on his desk and the floor surrounding. He chewed his nails to focus, and there were always at least three stuck in the carpet beneath him. Armin had always been a slob, but now he was just a mess.

His eyes were blank as he stared at the satellite images on-screen.

It had been three days since he last showered. It had been three days since he was last home long enough that his wife could  _make_ him shower. Therefore, it had been three days since he kissed his wife, held his son, or slept in his bed. For the passed seventy-two hours, Armin Alert had been sitting in his own filth, noticing, but far from caring.

The worst part was that he knew he wasn't the closest to Marco. Not that the two weren't family; they were, but they weren't blood. Marco and Mickey were, and she had to go about this alone while Armin sat and stared, and reheard the sound of static over and over in his head while the world around him blurred past.

 _Static._..

_Static..._

" _I repeat, this is_ Marco Bodt _calling from Maria. Do you copy_?"

Armin flinched when the voice came again, and stared at the radio on his desk. No one else was around, at least, no one who was really paying attention.

The voice came again, wobbling and high. "Houston _? Is anyone reading_?"

Armin stared so long he forgot he was reading, that he was supposed to respond, and his hand slapped into the Comm transmitter so hard and fast that his chair fell over and the few people still around this late whipped around to look at him. "MAR. 1A, this is Armin Arlert. What is your current reading?"

Something rattled in his chest waiting for a reply,  _waiting_ for a voice on the other end which would prove this wasn't all something he'd thought up, that he wasn't crazy. 

And that voice came again, bubbling and wobbling and  _present_. 

" _Armin! Armin, oh my god!_ "

His hands shook. There it was again. He wasn't crazy.

And Marco wasn't dead.

"MAR. 1A, I read you!" Armin said, "I read you!"

People were crowding, voices murmuring right and left of Armin. They asked questions, hopeful and fearful. _What was going on? Did he just say what I think he just said? Oh, god, what's that smell?_

Then another voice joined in, calm and commanding as always, cutting through the masses. "Arlert, what's going on?"

Armin whipped around, his hand still pressing into the intercom mic. Tears sprung to his eyes, and he had the sudden urge to go home, kiss his wife, hold his son, and take a shower.

"MAR. 1A just made contact, sir," Armin panted. Tears slid down his face, and he made no effort to hide them. "Marco Bodt is alive."

There was a short pause, a shocked pause, before all of Satellite Control erupted.

 


End file.
